Unleashed - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part 2

by Duncan Whitehead

  Ignatius sat quietly, he gave his friend no indication as to what he thinking.

  “And as for you hiring us to kill Robertson, I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing. That would be on the house.”

  Ignatius took a deep breath — that’s what he wanted to hear. That was what he was waiting for, but he was cautious not to appear too willing.

  “Pete, I don’t know what to say. I mean, this is illegal, I know that, but why me?”

  “You fit our profile, Ignatius. You have no family, and I am sorry to be blunt, you have no one. You are on your own. You were a hell of a sniper, a hell of a marksman, a hell of a soldier and a hell of a leader. You know how our contractors think. I respect your judgment, ‘They’ respect your judgment. Yes, there is a risk, but as I said, I will protect you, always. We do have a certain ‘agreement’ with some very influential people. Though they do frown upon our private business, they leave us to our own devices. I mean, and I will be honest, people get hurt, people die, and sometimes they are people who don’t deserve to die. But it is a business, Ignatius, a very lucrative business, and, as I see it anyway, if someone wants someone dead badly enough, then they will have them killed anyway. We can’t stop it. We just provide the service.”

  “You mentioned Robertson,” said Ignatius.

  Ferguson nodded. “Yes. If you agree to join us, then the ‘Organization’ have agreed to take care of him; send in one of our contractors and take him out. Kind of a signing on bonus, if you like.”

  Ignatius shook his head. “No.”

  “No?” replied Ferguson.

  “No. If I agree to join this organization, then I have one stipulation. One stipulation only. That I be the one who gets to kill Robertson.”

  “Ignatius, you are 61. You would be the prime suspect. This is the very reason we exist. To create distance between victims and those who want them dead. I am sorry, but I just couldn’t risk it, and it goes against all our protocols.”

  “Pete, from what you have told me, you guys sound like you can do anything. I am sure that you can bend the rules just this once. It is personal; it is something I alone have to do. If I am going to ‘direct’ others to kill, then surely I should have had experience in the field. You know, Pete, I always led from the front.”

  Peter Ferguson knew that. He would be dead if Ignatius had not been there by his side in Vietnam, been there to drag him to safety, taking fire, and risking his own life, to save his second in command. It was his turn now, his turn to repay the debt.

  Ferguson nodded his head. “We do have ways to provide you with a firm alibi, should you become a suspect, which let’s face it, you probably would be. And we can set it up so that there will be no witnesses. Jesus Christ, we have killed Presidents and Kings and gotten away with it. Let me make some calls when I get back to DC. If I can arrange it that you are the one who pulls the trigger, the one who kills Robertson, are you in?”

  Ignatius leaned back in his chair. “Hell, Pete, if you let me be the one to kill TJ Robertson, I would work for free.”

  Ignatius did not hear from Pete Ferguson for another three weeks. After shaking hands, Pete explaining that he had a flight to catch, they had parted. It was the last time he ever saw his friend.

  Something had changed in Ignatius; his spirits and mood had improved, while still grieving for May, he suddenly felt he had a purpose again. If Pete had been telling him the truth, then Ignatius would have a renewed reason to live; he would become a harbinger of death for those who deserved it. His role as ‘Director’ would allow him to pick and choose which ‘non-official’ contracts the organization would accept, he would then allocate a suitable man for the job. It was now Ignatius’s turn to administer justice. Not once on the day he joined the organization did he consider the innocents who might die.

  Three weeks later Ignatius received several packages. One was a mobile telephone, the note that accompanied it informed him it was a secure and direct line, and this would be the chosen means of communication with the Organization. The other parcels contained a computer, printer, expensive office furniture, and other items that would not have looked out of place in a fancy Manhattan office. The note accompanying these packages advised Ignatius to go for a long walk tomorrow at two pm. and to return at four. When he returned, the equipment sitting in the large boxes, and the furniture provided, would have been set up for him. It was apparently a precaution; the fewer members of the ‘Organization’ who saw Ignatius, the better.

  Five days after Ignatius had taken his ordered walk, and returned to find the room that overlooked Gordonston Park, the room in the turret that he had once earmarked to become a child’s nursery, had been converted to a high tech office, the secure phone eventually rang.

  It was Peter Ferguson. The Organization had agreed to Ignatius’s terms. He was in. In a few minutes his computer would be remotely activated, files transferred, and he would begin his work as ‘The Director’ for the Organization immediately. Ignatius had only one question for his friend: when did he get to kill TJ Robertson?

  Peter Ferguson explained that things had already been set in place, and that for the past four weeks they had had TJ Robertson under constant and clandestine surveillance. They knew his routine, his every move, they even knew what he had eaten for lunch four days ago. They had taken extra precautions for this one.

  “Ignatius, are you sure you really want to go through this?” asked Pete.

  Ignatius did not hesitate with his reply. There was no pause, no indication that he had for one minute changed his mind. “Yes.”

  “Good,” replied Ferguson. “The kid’s a menace. The guys watching him have reported that he hasn’t learned his lesson. He is still drinking, still driving drunk. If you weren’t going to do it, I would do it myself. For May, and the countless others this moron is potentially going to kill.”

  Ignatius was told that tomorrow morning a car would collect him from his home. The driver would have a package for him. They, Ignatius and driver, would then drive the approximate two hundred miles to Atlanta, where TJ Robertson was staying with his mistress. Not only was TJ Robertson a murderer, he was an adulterer, spending extended periods of time with his younger lover, holed up in the love nest he had provided for them, leaving his long suffering wife wondering where her husband was.

  TJ Robertson was 29 years old, and during his brief time on earth had caused more misery, heartache and misfortune than ten men could in a lifetime. Ignatius had no reservations about killing this despicable man. For the first time in months, Ignatius slept soundly, and the following morning he woke with a smile on his face.

  As promised, a car was parked outside Ignatius’s house; it was a black sedan.

  As Peter Ferguson had predicted, the driver of the car handed Ignatius a package as soon as he entered the vehicle. He opened the carefully sealed box. The Beretta M9, Semiautomatic, 9mm, M9, was a 9×19mm Parabellum pistol adopted by the United States Armed Forces in 1985. Ignatius had not fired one of these weapons before, they had come into service after he left the army. He held it up in front of his eyes to enable him to take a better look at it. There was a silencer already attached.

  “Are you ready, sir?” asked his driver.

  “As I ever will be,” replied Ignatius.

  “Very well,” said the vehicle’s driver, a young man Ignatius guessed to be about 30 years of age, dressed in a dark suit, and sporting a short haircut. He shifted the car into drive and headed west towards Atlanta.

  Three hours later Ignatius exited the vehicle and made his way to the spot where his driver had instructed he stand. The neighborhood was an upscale community; large spacious modern type homes; all with immaculate gardens and expensive looking cars parked in the driveways. It was not too dissimilar than his neighborhood in Savannah, thought Ignatius, though of course the homes had been built well after the houses in Gordonston. It was, as predicted by his driver, quiet. The streets, apart from a few vehicles parked on the road, were deserted
. Ignatius checked the time on his watch. If his driver was correct, then TJ Robertson would be walking along this very avenue in precisely one minute. Ignatius checked his weapon, he double checked that the safety catch was off, he checked that the silencer was fitted correctly, checks he had carried out during the journey, but checks he nevertheless carried out again.

  TJ Robertson, it seemed, had a routine. According to the surveillance reports, he and his girlfriend would party late into the evening, they rarely woke before noon. At 12:30, every day, TJ Robertson would go for a walk, an excuse to smoke a cigarette and to walk the puppy he had bought his lover as a gift. He would walk the quiet neighborhood until the young dog had done his business and he had smoked his first cigarette. He followed the same route every day. Today would be no different.

  As Ignatius spotted Robertson turn a corner and head towards where he lay in wait, he had no second thoughts, no regrets and no fear of taking this man’s life. This was the man who had destroyed his own life, killed the only person who he had ever loved. Ignatius was a trained killer; he had seen combat, fought in wars. Killing wasn’t an easy thing to do, but for Ignatius – this killing would be, he would enjoy it.

  TJ Robertson, with his girlfriend’s puppy following him a few steps behind him on a leash, lit a cigarette as he reached the spot where Ignatius lay in wait. Without a word Ignatius fired one shot into his head. He fell to the ground without a sound. No one heard or saw anything; it was over in less than a second. Ignatius stared at the brindle puppy, who had not made a sound. The dark furred dog stared back at him. Ignatius took aim.

  Five seconds later the black sedan appeared, the rear door ajar. As Ignatius entered the car a black van appeared from the other direction. As Ignatius’s car sped away he turned his head to see two men lift the dead body of TJ Robertson into the back of the van before it sped off in the opposite direction from where Ignatius and his driver were headed. It was done. May had been avenged, justice had been served, and Ignatius felt no guilt, or the slightest bit of remorse for the man he had just executed.

  “Well done, sir,” said his driver, who glanced at Ignatius through his rear view mirror. Ignatius did not respond. “It’s good to see someone lead by example. It will be a pleasure to work with you,” continued the driver.

  Ignatius once again did not reply.

  “One thing though, sir,” said his driver again. “I am not sure it was wise bringing the dog. I won’t say anything, but it seems you are taking an unnecessary risk. Why didn’t you just shoot it?”

  Ignatius smiled and stroked the animal on his lap. He could not bring himself to harm it, nor could he face leaving it behind. Again he did not reply.

  “I believe it is a Cairn terrier, if I am not mistaken,” said his driver. “He looks young, probably only a few weeks old. My aunt has one, very loyal apparently. You know the dog from the Wizard of Oz was a brindle Cairn terrier, just like him.”

  Ignatius petted the animal on his lap and looked at his collar. He had a name tag… ‘Blacky’.

  “Just take me home, son,” said Ignatius, “just take me home.”

  * * * * *

  Ignatius Jackson once again coughed, blood splattering his handkerchief. Chalky again raised his head and whimpered softly. Ignatius reached over to his bedside table and grabbed a glass of water. He drank slowly before replacing the glass and laying his head back onto his pillow.

  The body of TJ Robertson had never been found. Some had speculated that maybe he had been kidnapped, and that his father had refused to pay any ransom, others supposed that maybe his long suffering wife had been involved in his disappearance. One thing though was for sure, no one had even suspected Ignatius Jackson; he had not been questioned; there were no visits from detectives; nor was there any inclination that he could have possibly been involved. Peter Ferguson, though, had been annoyed and mildly disappointed with Ignatius for taking the dog. It was dangerous and stupid; the dog could have led the police back to Ignatius. But Ignatius had told his old friend, former subordinate and now boss not to worry. He had taken precautions, and did he really think he was going to leave an innocent puppy wandering the streets, let alone kill it, or leave it for the men who had retrieved Robertson’s body, just for them to put a bullet in its head? No, it was fine, he had the dog, he had bleached and dyed his fur and changed his name. The puppy was his now, and his name was now Chalky.

  Once again Ignatius returned from his memories as he coughed and noticed that now blood was dripping from his nose. He had resigned as the Director four months previously, a week after he had witnessed the killing of Tom Hudd by Doug Partridge. He had been thankful that Doug had not harmed Tom’s dog, merely let him wander around the park, it was something Ignatius would have done.

  The following day he had collapsed at home and the Doctor had given the prognosis — he had months to live, finally the cancer was winning, and the fact he had lasted as long as he had had been, according to his physician, remarkable. The Organization had accepted his resignation, he had spoken to Peter Ferguson personally, using a secure line, and though Ignatius half expected a visit from a ‘contractor’ to ensure his resignation was permanent, the waited bullet to his brain never came. What did come though was another message from Pete. The Organization had been compromised. It was over. There would be no more killings for the foreseeable future. A new Director had not been appointed to replace Ignatius, for the time being the ‘Organization’ would cease to exist. Who had compromised them wasn’t known, what was known was that some names of ‘contractors’ had been leaked, and were now being auctioned to the highest bidders. Foreign governments, criminal organizations and even private individuals may have gotten hold of names and addresses of those who worked for the ‘Organization’.

  Ignatius Jackson did not know who had been compromised; he did not know whose identities and personal details had been on the stolen list. He didn’t really care; the organization no longer existed. Soon he would no longer exist, so it didn’t matter. But something compelled him to write the letter. It was against all protocol, against all the rules of the ‘Organization’, but he had written and sent it anyway. It wasn’t for him, it wasn’t to protect him, it was to protect the child….

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “At last!” cried Cindy Mopper as her doorbell finally rang. She had been waiting pensively for hours for her visitor and now he was here. She rushed to the front door and opened it with a smile on her face the length of the Savannah River.

  “You’re here! You’re back!” she shouted as she opened the door to greet her visitor.

  Billy Malphrus did what any dutiful and loving nephew would do. He hugged his aunt and kissed her on the cheek. Cindy beckoned him into the house, and along with his rucksack and battered suitcase, Billy entered the house he had left four months previously.

  “Oh, Billy, it is so good to have you back,” said Cindy as she handed her nephew a glass of sweet tea. “You have no idea what has happened here since you left. I don’t know where to begin. Anyway, before I do, first tell me what you have been up to.”

  Billy smiled at his aunt, and took a sip of the sweet tea before he began his story.

  He had spent the past few months in Africa, working for yet another charity, this time helping to dig wells in remote villages. The charity had contacted him and practically begged him to go and help them out. They needed him, and what could Billy say? He couldn’t refuse, even if it did mean leaving Savannah in the middle of night and having once again to leave his loving aunt. It had been hard and arduous work, and he had simply fallen in love with Africa and the villagers. They had practically pleaded with him to stay, even after the wells had been dug, and fresh water was now available to all. It was difficult to leave, but he had another priority, his beloved Aunt Cindy, and he simply had to return to Savannah and Gordonston to see her. He had called her the previous day from the airport, letting her know he was back and could he visit. Of course Cindy had replied yes. Visit? He could
stay as long as he wanted. Who could turn away Billy?

  The truth, though, was that Billy had never been to Africa. There was no village, and there were no wells to be dug. The morning Tom Hudd disappeared, Billy had noticed a police car parked outside the Hudd’s home, next door to his aunt’s house. Obviously he thought Kelly had turned him in. She had no doubt called the police and at that moment was making a statement about how she had been duped into sex by him, how he had pretended to be a ‘Count’, how he was nothing more than a conman who duped people out of money and unsuspecting women into sleeping with him. Was it a crime? Billy had no idea, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out. He had packed his bags and awakened his aunt who was still sleeping. He had told her he needed to go to Africa, and he had invented his story about wells, remote villages and how a charity had called him on the phone only a few minutes earlier. He would stay for lunch, then would have to leave that evening, he was just waiting on airline tickets, which would be e-mailed to him soon. Cindy had given him $50 for a taxi, and though she had tried to call Tom next door, to see if he would take her nephew to the airport, his phone had gone straight to his voice-mail greeting.

  That evening, Billy had taken a cab, not to the airport, but to the bus station, and he had boarded a Greyhound to Florida. For the past four months he had been working as a busboy at a diner in Jacksonville, less than 200 miles from Savannah, a job from which he had been recently fired for stealing the tips left for the wait staff. He had called his aunt a few days before, not for the first time in his life virtually penniless and without a plan, and told her he was thinking of visiting her, once he returned from Africa. It had been his intention to simply ask for money, for the Africans of course, but when his aunt had mentioned that she was quite lonely, due in part to the fact her neighbor and friend Kelly had moved out of her house over three months ago to live with her parents, Billy’s plan had changed. The coast was clear for him to return to Gordonston for an extended period, and there was now a second chance for him to maybe help himself to the loot and treasures he just knew would be stashed away in those old houses occupied by old biddies and Cindy’s friends and neighbors.