The Peacemaker

by Schuyler Thorpe

  “Uncle, just do what you have to do. And I’ll explain everything when this is over. Okay?” I promised him.

  My uncle nodded. “All right. But I’ll just be out the door and down the hall in the next empty recovery room—listening and waiting. The agents are in the one across from it.”

  I nodded. “I know. Now go.”

  He did so and looked at me one last time before closing the door and leaving it open just a crack.

  As we had discussed.

  I took up position just inside the empty space next to the door, but well out of sight of the drawn window blinds.

  Everything had to make it look like Bart was here on his own and nobody was watching him.

  Not even Shelly or the nurses themselves—though they held great reservations about the whole idea of using the prince as prime bait.

  But I held my ground on the matter and made them understand that I had my own reasons for going through with this operation.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that the time was fast-approaching 2:10.

  Perfect, I thought. It’s show time. Will Asshole#1 please step up to the plate…?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN.

  Conrad Jones entered the clinic at precisely 2:30 on the dot—hating to be late even if it was by a minute.

  In his stock and trade, punctuality was everything.

  Once he got inside and started walking the empty halls, did the man start having some suspicions of his own.

  Where is everyone? He thought to himself, before going around the corner and finding a nurse’s station.

  The woman at the desk looked up and then stood at his approach.

  “Yes…can I help you…sir?” The nurse started off with clear uncertainty. It wasn’t that often that the clinic had visitors, but the nurse was under orders to let the man see the patient in question.

  “My good lady,” Conrad began pleasantly. “I am terribly lost. Can you tell me where I might find His Royal Highness?”

  The woman pointed down the hall. “He’s down there, to the left, and in Recovery Room 3-B. Keep walking a little ways and you‘ll find it.”

  The man nodded and then paused for a second.

  “Is it always this empty during the day?” He asked—purely out of curiosity.

  “The day staff aren’t on call until there is an emergency. Last night’s qualified when one of our own people brought in the prince. He had been badly injured and required surgery.” The nurse said, glancing at one of the computer screens in front of her.

  “How is he?” Conrad asked. But on the inside, he was fuming.

  How could an attack so perfect not kill them?

  “In serious condition, but unconscious for his own good.” The nurse revealed. “He should be awake in a day or two—depending on how he’s doing.”

  “I see. Well, that is truly good news.” Conrad gushed with well-played enthusiasm. “The Crown would hate to lose a young man so talented and up and coming as he.”

  “Naturally.” The nurse responded neutrally—but not having a clue as to what he was talking about. “I would like to talk all day, but even I have things I must do.”

  Conrad nodded gaily and bowed to her slightly. “Forgive me. I shall leave and attend to His Majesty personally.”

  The nurse nodded again, her face conveniently hidden behind the flat screen monitor. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him leave—his body posture revealing nothing to the attentive.

  “He’s coming.” She said softly into her wired mike.

  I waited until 2:29 and was about to check on Bart when I got word that Conrad had entered the building and was on his way to the prince’s room.

  “Don’t do anything until he gets there. We want him to think no one is watching him.” The voice on the other end warned me.

  But I just rolled my eyes and hissed back: “He’ll know someone’s here if you twerps keep talking! Now shut up! Out!”

  Blissful silence followed and I was certain I could hear my uncle laughing in the back of my mind.

  But I blocked everything out and waited for my prey to make his grand appearance.

  Several minutes would pass me by before I heard the door open softly and watched as a man stepped into the room—not even knowing that I was here.

  He’s MI6 material and he doesn’t even know that I’m right behind him? I thought with amazement. He’s definitely no James Bond—that’s for sure!

  I monitored his every move and just when I was certain that no tricks could be played out—did I see Conrad pull out a small pistol and fitted a custom-made silencer at the end of it.

  “I’m terribly sorry that it had to come to this, your Highness, but some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.” He was saying as he approached the bed.

  It was then that I made my move.

  In a split second’s time, I had my sword drawn and I grabbed him by the back of the neck and held my weapon at his most vulnerable spot.

  “Drop it, asshole.” I hissed dangerously in his ear. “Or you won’t have a head to walk away with.”

  Conrad was more surprised by the sudden turn of events than I was.

  “So…someone was here after all.” He said as pleasantly as you could get out. “And who would it be? Not the police, not the US government, but a second-rate courier pilot. Are things this bad with your nation‘s national security—that they couldn‘t have sent a couple agents?”

  “Drop it, buster. I mean it.” I repeated my warning—while ignoring his rant. “You’re not going to harm him. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Whatever for? He means absolutely nothing to you. He’s just a boy—barely a man—and a prince at that. Nothing more.”

  Wrong! I thought—barely holding back the urge to kick him in the nuts. He means a lot to me!

  I knew enough about spy movies that I wasn’t going to get bogged down in a philosophical debate.

  “Last chance—” I said—tightening my grip on my blade. “—then I start cutting.”

  There was a moment of silence between us as Conrad considered my threat.

  Then he surprised me by dropping the gun. It hit the floor and clattered across it for a few seconds before going absolutely silent.

  I never moved an inch and I wasn’t about to look down either.

  Stupid I wasn’t.

  “I let go. Now will you do the same?” Conrad asked amicably.

  “If the gun is near you, give it a good kick. I don’t want any surprises.” I told him.

  Conrad’s shoulders slumped against me for a second and then he did as he was told.

  I heard the gun do another sharp bounce across the floor—underneath the prince’s bed—where it ricocheted off the wall and then ended up somewhere on the other side of the bed.

  “Satisfied?” Conrad inquired.

  “Good boy.” I told him and then steered him away from the prince’s bed as a safety precaution.

  “Must you?” He griped as I got him closer to the windows.

  “I don’t want you to try anything else, smart guy.” I said.

  “I was trying something. But you stopped me.” Conrad sulked.

  “That’s what the good guys always do in a situation like this.” I told him. “They stop the bad guys in their tracks—each and every time.”

  “Is that what you think I am? A bad guy?” Conrad queried.

  “When you go after someone who is just as helpless as the prince is over there—? Yes.”

  Conrad sighed on his behalf. “Then you have me all wrong. I’m not the bad guy in this scenario. I’m just a shrewd tactician—always on the look out for an easy mark.”

  “So you think that the prince was an easy mark, huh? What about me? Am I that easy?”

  “You certainly didn’t have any qualms about taking the money I proffered you from the beginning.” Conrad countered truthfully.

  “You were offering me a business proposal.” I returned without batting an eye. But somethi
ng in my stomach turned the wrong way and I felt a pang of guilt.

  “No,” the man chuckled. “All you took was a conveniently placed bribe. And I must say—you certainly fell for it. Line, hook, and sinker.”

  Everything inside me went cold with dread.

  A bribe?! I thought with horror. In that second, my grip faltered and Conrad took full advantage of that.

  In the space of a few seconds, he had twisted himself out of the way of the blade and managed to get underneath the blade—before my sense of awareness kicked back in.

  I spun the blade away from him and then brought up in a defensive position—just as the man went for an expertly placed side-kick delivered right to my face.

  I jumped back a notch to counter him by batting away his black boot and then coming around with a snap-kick of my own, but the man grabbed my foot in mid-air and flipped me around like I was nothing more than an entangled marionette.

  I went down hard on my side, my sword hand sprawled out at a sharp angle—before I managed to scramble up and away; crouching low to provide the smallest profile to my attacker.

  Conrad didn’t hesitate to rush me—first by doing a leap-kick from across the large room (aiming for my sword hand), but when he saw that this didn’t work, he twisted himself around at the last second—for a roundhouse punch that nearly connected and took my head off.`

  At this point, space was at a clear premium and I didn’t have enough to move myself around.

  But thanks to my athletic profile, I managed to squeeze myself around so that I now stood at arms-length and in front of the prince’s bed.

  Conrad stopped for a second to size me up—smiling all the same.

  “You fight pretty well for someone whom doesn’t know well enough to quit while she‘s ahead.”

  “Is that supposed to be a hint or a friendly warning?” I challenged warily.

  The other man shrugged while wiping off the beaded sweat off his brow.

  “Take it as you will. But in the end…it will avail you nothing. I’ll still win in the end—and you…?” He paused for a second, then resumed.

  “You’ll lose.”

  I decided to call his bluff right then and there.

  “I don’t believe you.” I said up front and calm as you could be.

  “Oh?”

  “No one would be that stupid to think that they’ve already won before the game’s called in favor of the opposition.”

  “But you think you’ve won, my dear.” Conrad countered easily. “What would you call that?”

  “Strategy.”

  “A poor one, I would think. You‘re in no position to start dictating terms.”

  “I do hold the upper hand.” I said—brandishing my short sword in front of his face.

  In the blink of an eye, he kicked it away from me—leaving me shocked and defenseless.

  The sword hit the lower window edge and clattered to the floor soon after—a subtle reminder of my own personal failings.

  “Not anymore.” Conrad said triumphantly. “What else do you have, my dear? I would be most entertained if you could pull another rabbit out of your hat.”

  The door suddenly opened and a bunch of men spilled through—tackling Conrad to the floor in a rush.

  “I’d say that is one hell of a rabbit.” I murmured with open-faced approval.

  “Off of me you fools!” Conrad bellowed loud enough to be heard out into the hallway. “I say…off!”

  “You’re in no position to start dictating orders to anyone, mister.” Agent Smith barked rigidly. “In fact, I would shut up before you end up saying the wrong thing towards the end.”

  Nodding to the rest of his group, the other agents started steering the man towards the open door—with my uncle just passing by.

  “Got him?” He said with naked satisfaction. Smith nodded then and he kept his grip on the man’s arm as he steered him out the door and around the corner.

  At this point, I started breathing normally—my body bumping up against the soft mattress at the same time.

  Glancing back at Bart, I said softly: “It’s over, my love—it’s finally over.”

  But all I could hear is the soft bleeps and whirs of the machines pumping artificial life into his young and very fragile body.

  And nothing else.

  For a second, I wished I could’ve just torn all those wires and tubes from his body and hold him in my arms.

  But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.

  Life wasn’t that generous. Not in this reality.

  People like me took what they could get and lived with the consequences that stemmed from decisions made in both the short and long term.

  No matter how good or how bad.

  Or how much I hated myself right now for not seeing the obvious—when it was so clear in retrospect.

  “Damn it…” I whispered to myself—thinking just how much a fool I was for trusting someone like Conrad Jones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT.

  3:06 PM.

  Agent Smith kept a firm hand on Jones as him and the other three agents kept a close scrutiny of their newfound prisoner.

  Once they had rounded a corner and entered a barren hallway—did Smith ask them to stop for a second.

  “Why?” Greer asked.

  “Just do it. And don’t ask any more questions.” Smith said—slightly agitated.

  “Any last words?” One of the agents asked—after he had him up against the wall.

  Conrad just smiled then—apparently all ears and nothing else.

  “Well?”

  “Just one.” He finally answered.

  “What?”

  “You’re dead.”

  The agent’s eyes widened at what had just been said, but before he could ask, he felt the cold barrel of an automatic pistol being pressed against his left temple.

  And…

  Just…

  Like…

  That…

  The trigger was pulled.

  The unfortunate agent’s head blasted back like a test dummy’s in a split-second—hitting the wall and sliding down; leaving a trail of crimson blood on the downturn.

  The other two surviving agents didn’t know what the fuck was going on either. But they too—joined their unfortunate colleague into permanent oblivion.

  Agent Smith tossed the gun aside—feeling both relieved and guilty at the same time. Many of these men were close friends in the department.

  But having to put them down was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  “I’m not doing this because of money, you know.” Smith was saying—having turned his back on Conrad for a second.

  It was all the time he needed to go and retrieve the weapon.

  “I know.” Conrad said in return. “I know it has nothing to do with money, power, or all the other trivial things which drive men to greater heights of ecstasy.” Then he pointed the gun at the agent.

  “It’s just a job, right?”

  Smith didn’t react one bit to the man’s words—even as the bullet which marked him for certain death made a beeline for the middle of his forehead and out the other side; blowing out a small cloud of blood in the process.

  Conrad watched impassively as the agent slumped to the floor and then dropped the gun right where he stood.

  “Just a job.” He murmured. “Isn’t that what they tell you in special training, Agent Smith?”

  Then he saw some dancing shadows across the hall from him and he knew that company wouldn’t be short in coming.

  Bending down…he grabbed the gun.

  ***

  My uncle and I both heard the muffled gunshots—clear as bells going off next door—and my uncle bolted out the door as fast as he could.

  I only lagged behind because I needed my weapon.

  And the gun that Conrad Jones left behind.

  Getting both only took a few precious moments, but like a jackrabbit, I was out the door and flying down the hall as fast as I could.

  O
nly to be fired upon a short second later.

  A body flew past me in a sudden blur—leaving me the only target left.

  A second shot rang out and whizzed past my head—missing its mark by mere inches.

  I screamed out of reflex and hit the floor at the same time—never losing my grip on both weapons at the same time—sliding across the cold surface and ending up against the other side.

  Another shot chipped away at the wall behind me—kicking up one a small plaster cloud mixed with the acrid tang of smoke and ozone from a spent bullet.

  In a flash, I sheathed my sword and rolled around to face my attacker and managed to get off a shot which cleaved right across Conrad Jones’ pretty face—burning a nice red trail across his right cheek.

  Yes!

  The man—to his credit—didn’t howl or scream like Jack Nicholson’s character did in the 1989 Batman movie, but he did wear a look of astonishment and pain which traveled up and down his features—only to end up in his eyes as a moment of pure indecision.“Live or die, dirt bag!” I screamed at him from where I laid sprawled out—cocking the next round into the gun’s chamber. “It’s your choice!”

  Faced with a life or death decision, Conrad chose discretion over valor and turned tail on me.

  I could’ve put a couple shots across his bow—or up his ass (as I saw fit)—but I wasn’t the kind of person to exact her own brand of justice in the face of death.

  Not when I saw the extent of the carnage all around me.

  “Uncle…?” I called out.

  “Back…here…” came a weak reply.

  Behind me and about, oh…say ten feet back—lay my uncle against the wall—a red splotch in his upper shoulder where a round had slammed into him head on.

  Pushing him up against the corner like some doll.

  “Uncle!” I exclaimed and got to my feet in a hurry—tearing down the hall as fast as I could and sliding to my knees in the process.

  I ended up perfectly where I needed to be and checked the shoulder.

  My uncle hissed at me and told me that it wasn’t bad.

  “Fuck that!” I swore lividly. “You got a hole the size of Montana right in the center and you’re bleeding like a stuck pig!” I quickly applied what pressure I could to the gaping wound and hoped like hell that my uncle had a much higher pain threshold until help could get here.