"Look at you, for instance," the man suddenly said, returning his gaze to the crowd. "You're not like all of them." He ushered toward the people around. "You're a wolf. And do you know what wolves hate more than sheep? To be constrained. You see, we're no different, you and I. We both love our country. We both want to see her succeed and rise to the power and integrity that she once bore. But something's gotten in the way. The sheep."
Abram swallowed, but continued to listen.
"Sheep come in all forms. There are sheep that are born as lambs. They know nothing else other than what they've been born into and have been raised to believe. Then there's the weathered sheep. They've been around long enough to decipher the difference between danger and safety. Yet these, too, follow aimlessly. And lastly, there's the wolf-turned-sheep."
Abram glanced the man's direction.
"These are the worst of all. They prey on the weak, pretending to be one of the sheep. Their disguise is so believable that not even the sheep can tell the difference. And so, these wolves dressed as sheep walk among the herd unknown. They whisper lies and promises in the ears of the other sheep. And being sheep, they believe it. Soon, one day, the sheep have all been brainwashed to believe they are not sheep, but wolves. And they take action. The only problem is, they aren't wolves. No matter how much they believe they are not sheep, they can't escape the truth. The wolves devour them immediately and the surviving sheep who thought they were wolves flee in confusion. Why hadn't they achieved their mission? Why were they devoured in seconds?"
The man squeezed Abram's arm just below the elbow.
"Wolves will always be wolves and sheep will always be sheep. The two can never coexist."
He released Abram's arm.
"Which one are you?"
Abram was left alone with his thoughts. Rage flooded his body and his hand trembled inside his pocket. Something needed to be done. They had to pay for their corruption and their lies. The people needed to be set free. Abram turned his head just as the man in the brown trench coat disappeared in the crowd.
Abram looked back toward the stage. The president-elect was nearing the end of his speech. Abram's window of opportunity was quickly closing. He needed to act now if he was going to achieve his mission. But why didn't he?
The crowd suddenly broke out into applause. The speech was over. His chance to make a difference gone. He released his grip on the concealed weapon and moved through the crowd like a shadow.
"I'm a wolf," he whispered to himself as he merged with the crowd for a second time.
Chapter 3
Abram caught up with the man in the brown trench coat. Or more like, the man was waiting for him. Abram slowed his pace when he saw the man sitting on a bench on the other side of the street. Abram made his way over and sat next to him.
"What do you want?" Abram asked, after a few seconds.
The man didn't respond right away. He unwrapped the silver tin foil cocooning his dog, and tore open a mustard pack.
"The dogs here are the best," he said. "Some think New York has the best, but don't let them fool you. D.C. has the juiciest."
Abram's brow furrowed. What was this guy talking about?
"You see, it's not just the quality of meat you have to consider. The bun and the condiments are just as important. Get a bun that's too dry or soggy, and you lose the richness of the bite. Crowd your dog with too many condiments and you drown it. It's all about the balance between the three."
The man took a bite.
"Just right," he said through a mouthful of hot dog and mustard. He took a second bite before wiping his lips with a napkin. He handed a silver-wrapped bundle of goodness Abram's way.
"I'm not a fan of hot dogs," Abram said.
"Suit yourself."
The man finished the first dog in one more bite, then prepped his second. He took his time with the second dog and chewed slowly, almost as if he was torturing Abram with the silence. He balled up his trash and tossed it in the waste bin a few feet away. He fist pumped when the trash made it in.
"This was a mistake," Abram said, and went to stand.
"Sit down," the man said. His voice no longer had that playful twinge to it. A seriousness had taken its place.
The man patted the bench with his palm. Abram sat down begrudgingly.
"I don't have time for games," Abram said.
"So what game was that you were playing back there?" the man asked.
Abram's pride surfaced and he bit his tongue.
"Children play games. Are you a child?"
The man's voice had returned to the nonjudgmental tone from before.
"You seem to say a lot without saying anything."
"Touché," the man said.
"Why have you been following me? You have two minutes to convince me, then I'm walking away."
"Two minutes? How can we put a time limit on destiny. Alright, very well. My name is Scott Train. I work for the government."
"Which agency?"
"None."
Abram glanced at him skeptically.
"Ok, so you don't work for any of the agencies, yet you claim to work for the government. What does that mean?"
"Just as I said. I work for the government. Just as what you were planning on doing back there was for the government, or I imagine in your case, for the greater good. But let's not bother with conjecture. There are many ways to work for the government without directly being tied to them."
"So you're a rogue corporation?"
"Something like that. We like to think of ourselves as the shadow behind the mask. We do what is necessary to ensure our government's survival. Even if that means removing one of them from power."
Scott Train let his words sit for a bit.
"What do you want with me?"
"I want to recruit you," Scott Train said. "We could use someone with your vision and skill. It's not every day you come across someone willing to change the world. Real change."
"And if I don't agree?"
"Well, that would be disappointing, but it's your life."
Abram watched the crowds disperse and go back to their boring lives. He couldn't help but scowl at how many followers there were, incapable and unwilling to do what needed to be done to make their world a better place.
"I'll need a day to think about it," Abram said.
Scott Train stood and blended into the crowd without another word. He hadn't said how Abram could find him, but Abram already knew he would find him. Abram's nostrils flared.
He stood and went over to the hot dog stand.
"What would you like?" the seller asked. He was busy shuffling out other orders to the people in line.
"I'll take one," he said.
The man pulled a tinfoil wrap out of the cart and handed it to Abram. Abram handed the man a five-dollar bill.
"Keep the change," he said.
The seller nodded his appreciation, then was asking the next customer for their order. Abram grabbed two packets of normal yellow mustard. He bit down into the warm dog as he gazed at the vacating Capitol Building. Scott Train was right; it was all about the balance.
And those at Capitol Hill were the most corrupt yet. Abram had made up his mind by the last bite.
Chapter 4
The dinner bells chimed. Abram didn't bother to look around. He knew it was Scott Train. It was day two, and he had been waiting for the mysterious man to show up sooner or later.
Scott Train removed the same brown trench coat and hung it over the back of the red leather stool. He sat down in the seat next to Abram.
"What would you like?" the waitress asked.
"I'll have whatever he is having," he said, pointing at Abram's plate.
"One House Special coming up."
"And coffee. Black."
"I'll have that out to you in a few minutes."
She jotted down his order on a slip and jabbed it on a metal stake hanging at the counter to the kitchen.
"I wondered when you'd show up
. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show," Abram lied. He knew Scott Train had every intention of meeting him. No doubt, he had spent the last few days running background checks on his target. Then again, he had probably already conducted any checks before even confronting him at the Capitol Building.
"I arrive at exactly the right time, every time," Scott Train said. "You'll learn that about me."
"What now?" Abram asked.
"I assume you're interested?"
"Don't patronize me. You knew I was in the moment you babbled on about wolves and sheep."
Scott Train smiled and unfolded his napkin and stuffed the corner in his shirt. The waitress brought his plate seconds later and a boiling cup of coffee. Scott Train thanked her and proceeded to pour half the sugar jar into the cup.
"Diabetes much?" Abram said, choking back a half-gasp.
"You only live once. And I like sugar."
Scott Train ate his breakfast in silence. Abram tried his best to pretend he was dying inside with anticipation. He glued his eyes to the TV screen.
"You and I both know you're not going to find the answers that you seek in that tin box."
"Either way, it's there."
Scott Train placed his fork and knife diagonally on his plate and removed the napkin. He patted his lips before laying it neatly over his plate.
"Would you like a refill?" the waitress asked, seeing he had finished his cup and food.
He waved her off. Scott Train laid a $100 bill on the counter.
"I got yours," he said to Abram.
"Thanks," he said.
Both men rose from their stools in unison and left the diner. Abram couldn't help but wonder if this would be the last time he saw the small hole in a wall. The waitress yelled at his back about seeing him in the morning. He only nodded.
Scott Train straightened his coat and flipped the collar. The weather hadn't improved much in the last few days and held firm to its chilly grasp. Abram didn't have a jacket today. He wore a tight T-shirt and blue jeans. His skin burned from the sudden jolt of cold air. He placed his hands in his pockets and followed Scott Train down the sidewalk.
"I feel I must warn you before we proceed—if you do this, you'll be on your own. No government or agency will be there to bail you out. Hell, you may even be on their Most Wanted list one point. Actually, I can almost guarantee it."
Abram didn't respond. He already knew if he took this path there would be no going back. It would be a lone road he'd take, wrought with danger at every turn. He welcomed it.
"Spare me. We both know the stakes."
Scott Train respected Abram's no-nonsense approach. State the facts and move on. Anything else was just spitting air.
"You'll train at one of our facilities for the next year. If you make it through that, then we'll see what comes next. Your Navy SEAL training won't help you with what is to come. We need more than just a weapon that can follow orders. We need soldiers who can think and react on the go. There won't be time to transmit orders; you'll need to assess the situation and make an executive order. Whatever happens happens."
Abram swallowed. Was he really about to do this?
"Is that a problem for you?" Scott asked.
"No. I prefer to work alone."
"Good. Now, you won't always go solo. There may be occasions when you'll work with a team. Usually, this will involve a scout, a contact, and you. They'll have the area scoped out before you get there. Your job will be to execute the mission without being seen. The rest of the team will worry about clean up."
"What kind of organization did you say you worked for?"
"One who sees everything."
"That's not an answer."
"That's not a question."
So that was how it was going to be. Abram wouldn't know who he was working for, just that he'd be doing the world a favor. Abram felt strangely at peace with the whole ordeal considering the circumstances. The military had been the same way. Do as we say and don’t ask too many questions. It had been a few months since his freelance work went cold. Apparently, the common criminal was getting his act together and there was no longer a need for Abram’s services.
He continued to look forward.
"What kind of missions will I be asked to perform?"
"The most necessary. Sometimes foreign dignitaries need to be reminded where they stand in the food chain, while others need to be removed completely. No one is exempt. Not even our own president."
The seriousness of that statement weighed on Abram's shoulders. He had been ready to kill one such public figure a few days ago, but why was he all of a sudden bothered by the notion that he was being asked to do so now? He didn’t think twice when it came to putting a bullet between the eyes of a criminal, drug dealer, or hustling pimp on the streets, so why the hesitance with politicians? Abram grinned internally. Politicians were the most corrupt of them all. The common criminal had learned. They had changed their tactics and now were infiltrating the highest levels of government. Abram’s fingers were tight against his side with anticipation.
"I understand," Abram said, not a single ounce of remorse in his tone.
"When will my training begin?"
Scott Train stopped and faced Abram.
"Now."
Scott's eyes didn't budge or shift their focus as the van pulled up and two men jumped out and grabbed Abram. One shoved a dark hood over his face, while the other lunged into the van with him. The door slid shut with a bang as the tires squealed.
"Good luck," Scott Train said as the van made a right turn.
Chapter 5
The hood was suffocating. It smelled like someone had used it for a urine bucket. Abram had no doubt that the stench was from other, less pleasing events. He slowed his breathing and strained his ears for any sound of his abductors.
He had to resist the urge to fight. He knew it would be pointless. It was just a test he told himself. This was probably how they indoctrinated all of their new recruits. Abram knew the drill. Blindfold your target, take them to an undisclosed building or warehouse, and see just how far they're willing to take their patriotism for the United States. Abram had undergone intense training as a Navy SEAL, but he had also known they weren't trying to kill him. These people—he wasn't so sure. BUD/S would be nothing compared to what was to come. Abram couldn't wait.
The van came to a halt about thirty minutes later. Ok, so they're still within the city. The door slid open and rough hands ripped him out. He fell on his back. His lungs cried out as the air left them when they hit the hard ground. Judging from the give, it wasn't concrete. Maybe some side road or something. The men didn't bother righting him. They dragged him by his arms. The hood was still covering his face, but he could just barely make out what looked like a dock in the background. The smell of salt water only assured him. Then the ground lost its stability.
They were on a boat. He could hear the engine ignite. The abductors didn't touch him for the duration. He was huddled in what he assumed was a corner of the boat. The deck smelled of fish and rotting wood. Perhaps a fishing boat. Judging from the bob and tail of the boat in the waves, it was definitely a smaller vessel. Abram closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He was at home on the water. He wondered if they were pulling out just far enough from shore to toss his body in the cold water, but that never came. He lost track of time after the first hour. The sea was rougher now. The shore was miles away he was certain. Wisps of seawater washed over the siding and soaked his jeans. He shivered but blocked out the cold just like they were trained to do at Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL. The cold is only in your mind. The water is only in your mind. The pain is only in your mind.
Abram must have drifted off. He hadn't noticed the engine shut off until firm hands grabbed him by the shirt and picked him up. They led him around the crates on the ship, his shins scraping the sharp edges. Something solid fell on the deck to his left. With the hood still blocking his vision, everything seemed like it was happening o
n top of him. He was led up what he believed was a ramp of some sort. He could hear the ocean below. Were they changing boats?
When the engine started up again, he had his answer. They had indeed switched transport. Abram was thrust downward. Luckily, the fall wasn't far. Maybe a few feet. His legs caught the brunt of the fall. The room—cell, he concluded—was the interior of the ship. The air was significantly warmer here, and dryer. He savored every bit of grace he could. They left him alone for awhile after that. Wherever they were taking him, it was away from the mainland.
Abram's thoughts raced through the possibilities. Depending on how long they were at sea, their final destination could be anywhere. There was movement to his left. Abram bent his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. Rats were certain to be onboard. He didn't much mind rats, but their presence didn't add comfort.
"How long has it been for you?" a voice suddenly asked from the darkness.
Abram swiveled his head in the direction of the noise. He hadn't known anyone else was there.
"Who are you?" Abram asked.
"Rick. Rick Sims. I've been with them for about three weeks now. It's kind of hard to tell time in the dark."
"This is my first day," Abram offered.
"A virgin. Oh, they're going to have fun with you."
Abram didn't like the sound of that, so he changed topics.
"Are you in training too?"
"Training? Pssh! More like some mindless nightmare I can't seem to get out of. I agreed to the training, and the moment I did, they locked me up in here. I've been here since."
"So you haven't had any training?"
"No. Not the kind you're thinking. More like some sick form of initiation or something."
Abram laid his head against the wall. The road ahead could be a long one, but he had to maintain the goal. One day he would be done, and then he could do what he was meant for. Whether that was in a year or twenty, it would happen eventually. That's how you overcome isolation and deprivation—have a reasonable acceptance of the suffering and don't set a time limit on it.
Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller Page 2
