I, Weapon

by Vaughn Heppner

  “This is the truth?” Abdul asked.

  “What do you think?”

  Abdul thought about it. “I think it is time for me to leave. The government…” He shook his head. “You have paid me. I will go now and keep to my own affairs.”

  Bannon shut the door and Abdul drove off, heading back toward the SF Airport. Eyeing the used car lot, Bannon headed for it. Paying by cash would cut through a lot of red tape. At least it always had in the past.

  ***

  In his used Ford Ranger, Bannon turned off the ignition in Great America’s parking lot. He was among masses of other vehicles. The rides were going full tilt in the park. He could hear the clack of the roller coasters and the screams of teenagers. No one paid him the slightest attention.

  It was almost two in the afternoon. It was a brisk day, probably around seventy. Bannon wore shoes, slacks and shirt. The gun and knife were in his daypack, but remained in the Ranger. Great America had metal detectors at the gates and Security checked bags.

  There were several ways to attempt this. He had thought about waiting for Parker to go home, but he doubted she would. He didn’t see how he could lure her out of the Institute. So he had to go in. The secret passageway…he didn’t know how he knew about it, and he wondered if that was another trap. He would check it out, and he would obtain another gun in the theme park. If he was wrong about this memory, he would have to think of something else.

  With sunglasses on, he sauntered toward the wrought-iron ticket booths, letting his gaze rove as he put a tourist-type smile on his face. He didn’t spot anyone unusual until he gave his ticket to a bored kid sitting on a stool.

  Yeah. He spotted what had to be an ATS security team near the giant merry-go-round. The secret entrance was supposed to be inside the motor room. Their presence proved the underground passageway wasn’t so secret. The carousel was near the theme park’s main gate, a double-decker full of kids and their parents.

  The five-man unit didn’t quite fit with the tourists. A couple of them wore jackets. Those two wore dark sunglasses and were the heavy weapons section of the security team. They would be dangerous, particularly at close quarters.

  A taller man with hair down to his shoulders scanned the crowds. He was the spotter and would have keen powers of observation. He would have spent months, maybe years, sharpening his skills. A single training session might have him glance at five hundred photographs in several minutes. Then he would have to go to an airport and point out how many of those individuals appeared in Terminal 9 and give a detailed description of each. There were ways to teach the mind how to remember fast and with one look. It was hard, mind-numbing training. Bannon recalled it with distaste and he knew the longhaired man might have already spotted him. But maybe not.

  Working on the assumption that he hadn’t yet been spotted, Bannon paid for cotton candy and an Oakland Raiders cap. Soon he held a Bugs Bunny balloon. He walked within crowds, shielding himself from the longhaired man.

  Each member of the security team watched the crowds too closely, and they didn’t mingle nor did they look tired enough to relax as they stood around or sat on a bench. Their faces were wrong, too tight and too fixed.

  The fourth ATS man was speaking into a wrist microphone and he stood apart from the others. He was older, maybe forty-three, forty-four. He was lean like a distance runner and silver-haired. Bannon had heard of him: Snow. It was a nickname due to his silver hair. The man was a crack pistol shot and he could think fast on his feet, a lethal combination. Bannon had heard somewhere—it was in his subconscious anyway—that years ago the FBI had discharged Snow because he was psychotic. In other words Snow was a serial killer, one sanctioned by the State.

  That was a key to understanding the team. The ATS people were government-trained gunmen, hired to kill and motivated to a keen pitch. The Los Zetas gunmen had been tough. These four here would be faster and more ruthless in the execution of their duties because the law of the land backed them. There was a reason why Los Zetas was merely a drug cartel and why the United States was the most powerful government on Earth.

  As Bannon moved around them, keeping his distance, he assessed the security team. Then he went cold inside as he spied the fifth member, an outsider, a tall black man. That man was a military hunter and he wore a jacket. Bannon recognized the face, even though he’d only seen it in passing, in the dark last night along 17-Mile Drive. The hunter was a cleanup man, one of Max’s men. Bannon remembered hearing the name LeBron before.

  LeBron turned toward him. Bannon took a bite of cotton candy, thereby hiding his face behind the fluffy substance. The sticky candy melted in his mouth, and it brought back a memory of a happier time with his wife.

  “Jocelyn,” he whispered. His heart ached and he knew that he used to come here with her. He must have ridden the merry-go-round with his daughter.

  Anger hit him like a wallop to the side of the head by a big city mugger. Bannon used to come here with his wife and daughter. ATS—Parker!—had stolen that. The psychiatrist had raped his memories, and in this moment, Bannon felt utterly violated. The anger—he balled his free hand into a fist. His nostrils flared and heat crept up his neck.

  Knowing he needed to do this calmly, Bannon sauntered away from the operatives.

  He recalled the fake memory of the Los Zetas butchers shooting up the Monterrey mall. His wife and daughter had died before his eyes. The memory was false but the idea was right. Instead of Los Zetas, ATS had killed his family by stealing them and turning him into an assassin. Was that less awful than gunning down his wife and daughter in cold blood? He had lost his family and likely for years. During that time, he had dirtied his hands and stained his soul for ATS, for Dr. Parker and for the authorities in charge of the organization.

  Bannon kept walking. He needed to be alone and calm down. He had to go into the quiet place in his head that let him do his best work.

  -41-

  LeBron noticed a man holding a stick of cotton candy. People stepped aside for him. He knew what Bannon looked like, and that man might be him, but he wasn’t quite sure enough. He almost turned to jostle Snow’s elbow, to point out the man. If he did that and it wasn’t Bannon, Snow would tell Max. LeBron would never hear the end of Max asking if he was jumping at shadows down there.

  In truth, Max’s comments earlier had stung. LeBron had never cared for that kind of joking, but that’s what guys like him did, right? Max was a friend but he joked too much. This was serious, not some HALO shootout. For sure, he wasn’t afraid of no damn night-stalker, which is all an assassin was. Why did people think this guy was so tough? Did he shoot it out with other soldiers, with guys shooting back at him? Shit no, the assassin crawled in shadows and shot people from behind in the dark. In LeBron’s world, that was cowardly. The piss-ant assassin—

  “I’ll be right back,” LeBron told Snow.

  “Where are you going?” Snow asked in his tough-guy voice. The silver-haired man used to cage fight and was still a wrecking ball on the practice mats. You wouldn’t figure it from his slight build. Snow never smiled and he was terrible at picking up women. Sometimes, LeBron figured Snow must be a homo.

  “I need to use the john,” LeBron said.

  “Again?” asked Snow. “You must have a bladder infection. Or maybe it’s too small.”

  LeBron would remember that, but on another day. The man with the balloon and cotton candy was headed for the restroom. His quarry hunched his shoulders. There was something about him…

  “Shit,” LeBron said to himself. He was already walking. There wasn’t a mo-fo alive who could take him in hand-to-hand combat, certainly not Snow and not the assassin, if that was him going into the restroom. In tight quarters, LeBron would have the edge against a backstabbing night-stalker.

  LeBron lowered his head and his long legs ate up the distance. If it was the assassin and he brought the big bad mo-fo to Snow on a platter—yeah, he would never let Max hear the end of it.

  ***
>
  Bannon entered the restroom. It had nine urinals and even more stalls, which made it a spacious place as such things went. Everything was clean, spic and span tidy. A janitor in a Great America hat and jacket used his mop as he listened to his iPod with earbuds. Farther away, a father with his kindergarten son washed their hands by a sink. The little boy had to stand on his tiptoes to reach over, and he yelled the one time his dad tried to pick him up to reach the faucet.

  “I want to do it myself, Daddy!”

  Bannon motioned to the janitor. The kid looked up. He was lanky and maybe eighteen years old. Bannon was in a stall and pointed at the toilet, lifting the lid. The kid scowled, setting his mop aside and coming closer.

  Bannon had seen LeBron come striding after him. The man had a gun and Bannon only had his fists. In 17-Mile Drive, one of the team had shot Susan and the rear tires. LeBron wouldn’t hesitate here and he must have orders to kill.

  I must kill and I must do it quickly.

  “I need your help,” Bannon said.

  The kid lifted a hand and took out an earbud. “What did you say?”

  “I need your help,” Bannon repeated.

  ***

  LeBron strode into the restroom. There was a punk in a Great America cap and jacket mopping the floor. The jackass wore earbuds with the music turned up so high LeBron could hear the crappy tunes.

  Farther away, a frightened-looking man cranked the towel dispenser. As the man wiped his son’s hand, he said, “It’s time to leave.”

  “But my hands aren’t dry yet, Daddy!”

  “Come on!” the father said.

  LeBron sneered as the white mo-fo scurried out of the restroom, dragging the youngster by his tiny hand.

  Run little man. Flee from the beast.

  A second later, it felt as if ants crawled on LeBron’s face as his skin tightened. He’d half expected to see the man he’d been following pissing in a urinal. But that wasn’t so. It meant the man was in the stalls.

  Or maybe he’s Bannon the Assassin waiting for me.

  LeBron’s chest tightened and he found himself short of breath. The assassin was here. He felt it, knew it and realized he was alone with the slickest S.O.B. he’d ever heard of. The stupid janitor kept mopping the floor, never once looking up as his music played. LeBron realized he should have brought backup. In fact, he should step back outside and call in right now.

  Big LeBron Green actually took a step back, and he lifted his wrist microphone toward his mouth. As he did, he could swear Max laughed in his mind.

  “Hey,” LeBron could hear Max telling others, “know what happened the day we went after Bannon, the Supreme Justice murdering assassin? LeBron followed a lead: a guy passed-out in Great America, in the restroom, on the toilets no less. No, LeBron wasn’t going to pay him for a BJ. He thought the man was our assassin and do you know what happened?”

  LeBron lowered his wrist. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a Browning Hi-Power 9mm with silencer. Yeah, he was the best at hand-to-hand. But there were rules. Don’t bring a knife to a gunfight. That was one rule. Don’t use your fists when you can put a bullet in the assassin’s brain. That was another rule.

  LeBron’s lips skinned back across his teeth. His eyes gleamed and his heart thudded. Moving back from the stalls, he bent onto one knee and lowered his head. There weren’t any feet showing in the stalls, just empty space.

  LeBron stood fast and he aimed his Browning at the stalls. If the guy was sitting on the can, why would he take his feet up off the floor? For a second time, LeBron thought about calling for backup. He wanted to. It would be smart. The thought of Max’s open mouth, the tongue wagging as he brayed laughter…

  “No way,” LeBron said, mouthing the words silently.

  He sidestepped toward the first stall. Perspiration slicked the back of LeBron’s neck. His heart rate quickened.

  You lousy S.O.B., I’m going to shoot your heart out. Then we’ll see who the toughest mo-fo is.

  LeBron reached out to the first stall. He had long, strong fingers, and he kept the Browning close by his chest. As long as he heard the janitor’s music, he didn’t have to worry about the fool. With a sharp motion, he pushed. The door moved, and it banged against the stall. It made LeBron blink. The stall was empty. Fast now—speed was key—he stepped to the next stall and repeated the process. This stall was empty like the first one.

  LeBron’s fingers tightened around the butt of the Browning. The perspiration increased. So did the pounding of his heart. This was like going point in the jungle or working through an Iraqi slum. Yeah, urban warfare, it was a sharp-tongued bitch.

  Even as LeBron reacted and thought these things, he banged open the next stall. Speed and surprise—I’m going to kill your sorry ass right here and now, Mr. Assassin mo-fo.

  He opened the next stall, the other one after that and then he spied him. Bannon the Assassin was out cold sitting on top of a toilet, with his feet resting on the closed lid. This didn’t make sense. That meant—shit! LeBron turned around.

  ***

  Bannon gripped the mop. He had knocked out the janitor, ripped off the Great America jacket, cap and the worker’s iPod. He’d barely put the janitor into position, closed the stall, shrugged on the gear and picked up the mop when LeBron had stepped in. People saw what they expected to see. He’d acted like a dull-witted janitor and that’s what LeBron had seen.

  The cleanup man now twisted his muscular torso. He was fast and he looked unusually strong. Bannon had pried off the mop-handle’s plastic top. Now, with the edged metal of the mop-handle, he jammed it two-handed as hard as he could. He thrust the metal against LeBron’s throat. He didn’t stop with a simple thrust, either. Bannon heaved his shoulders and he kept pushing, shoving LeBron backward into the stall. The big man stumbled and hit the unconscious janitor. Still, Bannon shoved the mop-handle as if it was a Roman legionary’s spear. The 9mm clacked onto the tiles. In a swift move, Bannon pulled back, and he used the mop, sweeping the gun. It slid under the stalls and struck against a far wall.

  Bannon released the mop, stepped out of the stall and ran to the gun. He grabbed it as LeBron staggered out, clutching his throat. Their eyes met. The cleanup man twisted his wrist, moving the microphone toward his mouth.

  Bannon shot him three times, dropping LeBron onto the tiles.

  Afterward, Bannon tucked the 9mm in his waistband and moved quickly. He dragged the heavy corpse into another stall. In the tight confines, he checked the man’s jacket and took out another clip, two more clips. This would help. Even better was the jackpot: a walkie-talkie. Bannon worked fast, attaching an earbud to the communicator so he could listen in on radio traffic. Now he would have some real intelligence, and that was going to make a difference.

  Working fast and efficiently, Bannon propped up LeBron’s legs, positioning it so the corpse would stay here for a few minutes at least without being seen. Next, Bannon hurried to the paper towel dispenser. He yanked towels one after another and raced back to the stall. He sopped up blood, stuffed that into a trash dispenser and heard one the ATS operatives speak over the radio.

  “What’s taking you so long, LeBron? Over.”

  Bannon hesitated. He could mimic LeBron, but decided against it. That an ATS operative was talking like this to LeBron, it told Bannon that he had time to take the fight to the enemy.

  “LeBron, this is Snow. What’s happening, over?”

  Bannon walked out of the restroom and climbed into the nearby jasmine bushes. The observer was surely studying the restroom, possibly with binoculars, and he would recognize Bannon if he showed himself. Fortunately, the bushes hid this part of the restroom from someone looking where the observer stood.

  “LeBron isn’t answering,” someone said over the earbud.

  “Where did he go?” That was Max. Bannon recognized the voice from CR.

  “LeBron said he was going to the restroom.”

  “Check it out,” Max said.

  “Do yo
u think Bannon is in the park?”

  “Check out the bathroom,” Max said. “If Bannon’s here and if he’s taken out LeBron—”

  “We’re on it,” Snow said.

  -42-

  Bannon lay on his belly in the jasmine bushes beside the restroom. He was calm, fanning options in his mind like a card shark shuffling a marked deck.

  From here in the bushes he noticed that someone had written a four-letter word on a restroom wall. That was unusual in this amusement park, but it was hard to see because of the bushes, so the staff had probably not noticed it yet. It reminded him of an odd Supreme Court case. In 1968, a 19-year old had been arrested for wearing a jacket inside an LA courtroom that said, “Fuck the Draft.” In a 5-4 Supreme Court decision in 1971, the justices had overturned the Disturbing the Peace conviction. Since the four-letter word hadn’t been directed at a particular individual, it hadn’t been considered a “fighting word,” and was therefore protected by the First Amendment.

  Bannon shook his head. He needed to concentrate and he needed some confusion in the park. Ah, there was a simple way to get it. He lay on his side and unscrewed the sound suppressor. His fingers moved fast and in seconds, he deposited the suppressor in his pants pocket.

  He had a Browning Hi-Power, a loud weapon, a people-frightener. He rose up on one knee, peering through a bush.

  Snow strode toward the restroom. That was a piece of luck. Taking out the key operative would cause greater confusion and indecision. There were surely several teams hunting for him. One of the jacketed men hurried beside Snow. The two jogged toward the restroom, no doubt thinking to rescue LeBron.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid, Bannon knew. It was amazing how predicable even professionals became.

  The path into the restroom was different from the path out. Two young teenage girls were in the way, in Bannon’s line of fire. The girls stopped and laughed aloud. Bannon waited. Another four steps would take Snow out of his angle of sight.