Reaper would not have lasted in the business for as long as he had, had it not been for his fanatical secrecy. The existence of an international super assassin was suspected. Police forces across the world had failed to find any conclusive proof that any such person really existed. In the twenty years that Reaper had been in operation, he had always ensured that the modus operandi for each job differed, meaning no link could ever be made between any of his jobs. His contracts came from around the world through various networks. However, each network was unaware that its “hitter” worked around the world under different identities. Only in the US, his home country, was he known as Reaper. In Germany, he was Dieter. In Spain, he was Juan. In England, Giles. In Italy, Mario and so on. He had more than twenty five identities and spoke almost as many languages and dialects. He had, on more than one occasion, been contracted to “hit” himself in another country. This was easily resolved. He would simply take the money and hit the client who had issued the hit. He didn’t like people who tried to kill him.
The mysterious client from fourteen years earlier had been his most secretive. He had used even more elaborate security than the mega cautious Reaper himself. All Reaper had managed to glean was that he was male and an immensely powerful individual with connections at the highest levels across the world. This was the only client upon whom Reaper could not take revenge if he were ever double crossed.
Fourteen years earlier, he had thought twice about accepting the contract and in hindsight, had wished he hadn’t. The coldness and emptiness of the client when he had called Reaper after his monumental failure had struck fear into him. The call had been very short and to the point.
“You failed me,” he said, replacing the receiver before Reaper could speak.
The call had not been made to his mobile but to the bedside phone of a motel which, to this day, he believed nobody could possibly have traced.
Reaper had no intention of giving his own appearance away to the client and had taken adequate precautions by “borrowing” some clothes from a tramp in the toilets of Central Station. The clothes were too short but bulky enough to hide Reaper’s toned physique and their aroma certainly added to his cover. Passers-by visibly choked at the alcohol and urine fumes. To complete his new look, he’d grown a beard to give himself a dirty unshaven appearance and wore a hat to cover his hair. He also carried a bottle of cheap wine wrapped in brown paper. Reaper had gone, a tramp replaced him.
The phone call came at 10.30 a.m.
“Waldorf hotel, 11.00 a.m., get in the driver’s seat of a black car which’ll flash its headlights three times.” The caller hung up as soon as he was finished.
Reaper smiled, it was only five blocks away.
He made his way to the Waldorf Hotel, stumbling along the street and mumbling to himself along the way. Unbeknownst to all around him, he was scrutinising and analysing their every move. He scanned the traffic, checking for any vehicles which re-appeared or hung around suspiciously.
The car arrived bang on schedule and as agreed, the headlights flashed three times and the driver exited the vehicle, making his way to a diner across the street as if to pick up coffee and donuts. Reaper kicked himself at how stupid his disguise was. A drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of any car would be suspicious but a drunken tramp climbing into the driver’s seat of a Maybach, the world’s most expensive limousine, was farcical. Why was it these things only happened with this client? Reaper never made mistakes. Even fourteen years later, the client still made him nervous and edgy. He didn’t like it.
The car was completely black, not just the paintwork but also the windows. In fact, it gave the impression that there were no windows just black bodywork. Reaper waited until there was a lull in the foot traffic before he leapt across the pavement, around the bonnet, jumped into the driver’s seat and before the door was even shut, he’d gunned the engine and was half a block away. Nobody had had time to take in what had happened.
“Hello Reaper,” came the sullen voice from the speakers.
Reaper turned around and came nose to nose with a black screen. The front of the car was completely separated from the rear. He couldn’t and wouldn’t see the client.
“Hello.”
“Rather inappropriate dress, don’t you think?” asked the client laughing.
“It does the job,” replied Reaper not in the mood for humour.
Reaper continued north along Park Avenue. Fortunately, even the front windows were blacked out so nobody could see that a tramp was driving the $350,000 car.
“Whatever makes you happy. Now, if you look to your right, you will see a package. Those are your instructions which include all the plans you’ll…”
“Wait a minute, a week ago, you just said you wanted to talk?” interrupted Reaper.
“I don’t like being interrupted,” replied the client ominously, before continuing. “As I was saying, the package contains all the plans you’ll need. I don’t want to go into detail here, suffice to say that everything you need, including target identities and locations are in the package. Are we clear?”
“Look, I’m very selective about the jobs I take, I can’t promise anything other than I’ll have a look at and let you know, OK?” replied Reaper, knowing he would have a quick look see what the guy was up to and say no thanks. He didn’t want anything more to do with this client.
“Let me make this clear,” said the client, adopting his more ominous tone. ”You have been recommended to me AGAIN as the best and quite frankly that is the only reason you have been allowed to live for the last fourteen years.”
“What the hell do you mean ‘allowed to live’?” said Reaper angrily. He had had enough, nobody talked to him like this. The meeting was over, he pulled over to the kerb and said in his own ominous tone.
“Don’t underestimate me.” He stopped the car and began to open the door.
“Oh, I don’t, Matt.”
Reaper froze as the client said his real name. Pictures began to flash on the screen in the central console. The pictures were of Reaper, his homes, his fake id’s, his mother, in fact everything he thought nobody knew.
“Matt Heinrich, born 3 ^ rd March 1963 to Mary Heinrich, father unknown, in Columbus Ohio,” continued the client.
“How do you know this?” said Reaper almost whispering.
“I know everything. Now close the door and start driving,” the client commanded.
In a daze, Reaper obeyed.
Reaper was in shock. Nobody knew his background. His mother died when he was five years old. He’d spent most of his life in children’s homes, generally escaping and being moved to more secure facilities. At the age of fourteen, he had escaped for good and at the age of sixteen, had managed to fake his way into the army despite being a year too young. It was there that he found his true calling. He was ruthless, showed no mercy and was enveloped in a coldness that was ideal for some very special work. He was soon identified as a candidate for special projects. He continued to impress his trainers and after only a year, was moved into a highly secret division specialising in ‘black operations’.
Within two years, he had proven himself to be one of the best operatives ever recruited. He was an exceptional linguist, with an amazing ear, which allowed him not only to learn languages but to speak them like a native. His talent and lack of conscience chilled even the hardest commanders. His training covered fieldcraft and techniques taught across the world’s Special Forces. Reaper had been described by his commanders as a perfect killing machine. Not only was his training second to none but he had extraordinary physical attributes. He was six foot four, weighed seventeen stone and was built of solid muscle. Despite his physical enormity, he was light on his feet. He was a superb athlete capable of running both the marathon and the hundred metres in times which would qualify for the Olympics.
Reaper was no brainwashed fool, he did not care about flag and country. Nobody had ever cared for him and he knew that his talents and skills we
re extremely marketable. After six years in the services, he decided it was time to move on, although he knew that officially that was not an option. His talents did not allow exit from Special Services other than feet first. He was too dangerous to be let loose into civilian life. After more than six months of planning, he did leave the service, feet first. Everybody believed he and four of his colleagues had died on a routine mission when their helicopter crashed into the sea. No bodies were ever found in the shark infested waters. He had planned the accident down to the last detail. A small fishing boat was stationed not far from the point at which he had ditched the helicopter. The boat was found drifting close to shore by the coastguard shortly after Reaper’s escape. The ship’s captain had died of an apparent heart attack, thus leaving no link to Reaper and the crash.
He changed his appearance by undergoing lengthy and painful plastic surgery. He then set up his operations making contact with the underworld across the globe. He took on any job and collateral damage was not an issue to him. If the target’s children were caught up in the action, so be it. As long as the target was eliminated, nothing else mattered. This had upset a number of clients over the years whose conscience could not cope with innocent deaths. But as far as Reaper was concerned, they were simply casualties of war and the clients were weak.
The pictures before him were on a loop. There were pictures of him when he was a baby with his mother, mugshots of when he was arrested as a juvenile, army photos, a number of shots of him over the previous two months and most recently photos of him entering the toilets in Grand Central Station as Reaper and exiting as a tramp.
“But how?” was all he could say.
“Let’s just say I have some very talented colleagues. Now let’s continue with your mission,” said the client.
Reaper was silent, wondering how he could have been followed without knowing.
“You leave me no choice. Or do you?” he asked quietly.
“Of course you have a choice” offered the client. “Take the job and you’ll never need to work again. Or, consider yourself finished.”
“Then you leave me no option but to accept,” replied Reaper. “Excellent. I knew you would come around to my way of thinking. Now, as I was saying, the package to your right contains everything you will need. It also contains access to funds deposited in a number of countries under your various aliases. The value of the successful completion of this mission is worth billions to me. Therefore, on successful completion, you will receive $20 million dollars and my sincere gratitude. Failure, however, is unthinkable and will lose me as much as I stand to gain. Let’s be explicitly clear, therefore, failure is not an option. The world is not large enough for you to hide should that be the case.”
“OK, that’s clear,” replied Reaper nonchalantly, he could hardly believe it. $20 million for one job!
“Good. Now back to the funds. Besides your personal fee, you’ll need additional monies to carry out the mission. I’ve deposited another $20 million dollars but should you need any more, just ask. Whatever you need, you will get.”
“$20 million? What the hell will I need that for?” he asked snapping out of his own $20million trance.
“This is no simple mission. Once you read the contents of the package, you’ll understand. This is not a solo mission and you’ll probably need a small army to pull it off. Trust me, you’re going to earn your $20 million fee.”
“I now prefer to work alone and after the events of fourteen years ago, it has proved a wise choice.”
“Tough. This is not a solo mission. Just do what you have to do to get the job done. Now pull over here and get out.”
“What, here? What about your driver?” said Reaper looking around to see where they were exactly.
“He’s behind us.”
As Reaper pulled over to the kerb and got out, a car screeched to a stop behind them. The chauffeur jumped out and got into the Maybach pulling away instantly. Reaper was left standing, holding a package which could result in riches beyond his wildest dreams or, his death.
Reaper was desperate to find out what mission could possibly justify a $20 million price tag. However he’d have to wait, he couldn’t open the package in the middle of the street. He rushed back to his small, anonymous hotel room and ripped the package open.
It contained two envelopes, one labelled ‘Mission’ and one labelled ‘Reaper’. He opened the Reaper one first. It contained a secure mobile phone with the instructions that Speed Dial One was for the client, a number of passports for him with new identities and the bank account details for the $20 million expenses. He then opened the ‘Mission’ package and began to smile. It contained a number of schematics, photographs, a typewritten dossier of objectives and the criteria for the successful completion of the mission.
Reaper put the package down, he could not believe it. $20 million to kill the Kennedys, his wildest dreams had come true.
Chapter 22
One week later
Reaper had spent the previous week preparing his plan for the mission and trying to find out a little more about the client. The revelation that the client knew Reaper’s background had really knocked him and he needed to know who he was.
Following the meeting at the Waldorf, Reaper had noted down the registration of the Maybach and checked the owner’s details. The owner was John Doe, residing at Greyer Top Road, New York. Reaper could find no such road listed anywhere in New York State nor in the US and the name John Doe was the name given to any male in the US of unknown identity. It was not until later that night that Reaper realised his client was not to be fooled with. The address, Greyer Top Road, was an anagram of GOOD TRY REAPER. The client had registered a $350,000 car in a false name and address for just one meeting.
He had received a phone call the following morning on his new mobile. It had been the client who had advised him against digging any further, Reaper did not need to know who he was and in fact would live significantly longer if he didn’t. The phone as ever had just gone dead, the client had hung up, no goodbyes, no pleasantries.
Reaper was stunned, all he had done so far was check a car registration. Whoever the client was, he knew that somebody had done a search on the registration.
Reaper had also been shocked at the level of detail in the mission brief and the inclusion of highly classified documents, some were even stamped top secret. Reaper was no closer to knowing who his client was but a picture of a very well connected, powerful and manipulative figure was slowly coming into focus. Reaper was certain of one thing. If he failed, he was dead. The mission had a lot riding on it, it was now a life or death exercise.
Reaper had travelled to Scotland to see the Estate for himself. His pack had contained press clippings of the botched kidnapping as well as detailed schematics of the security system. The more he looked into it, the more he could not understand why Conor and his idiots had done what they had done. The place was impregnable, even with a couple of M1 tanks, Reaper would fail to get to the Kennedys.
He had rented a small secluded cottage twenty miles from the Estate and planned to base his operation from there. He had travelled back to the cottage that night and was still struggling to see how he was going to pull it off. He had a number of set criteria for a successful mission. It was not going to be easy.
It was three in the morning when the plan came to him in bed. His subconscious mind had looked beyond the small time operation he had been considering. He leapt up and was soon writing out the plan and how it could work. He had it! It was perfect and huge! Nothing like it had ever been done before. It would cost millions and he needed lots of men but he had the money and the time to put it in place. He checked his watch, it was 4.00 a.m. He had phone calls to make and it was daylight across the other side of the world.
Chapter 23
One week later
The twins were inseparable. They were now twenty five and had never spent more than one night apart. They had joined the army together and had insisted
on being posted together. The recruiting sergeant had humoured them and assured them that this would not pose a problem. This was, of course, a lie and resulted in the only night the two had ever spent apart. The extent of the havoc caused by their apparent ‘oversight’ had resulted in the two being reunited the very next evening. That, however, left a question mark over their suitability for the armed forces but they were indulged for the time being, until their mettle could be properly tested.
Any concerns about suitability were dispelled when the two began training. They were natural soldiers and proved to be two of the best killers to enter the service. After two years’ training, they were assigned to a very specialist unit which normally took staff for a maximum of twelve months such was the intensity, both physically and emotionally, of the work. However, the twins had had their service contracts extended three times as no suitable replacements could be found to backfill their now legendary killing abilities.
It was therefore a complete shock when they received their latest orders which were completely different to their usual orders and appeared on the surface to be rather undeserving of their particular talents. Nonetheless, the most important issue had been covered, they were both on the same mission. As usual, they prepared themselves to ship out and move to new barracks.
The new barracks were unknown to anybody on their current base. They were referenced by a three digit number which nobody recognised. They all surmised that it was a new designation. Interestingly, even the base commander did not know where it was. When he had requisitioned their flight details, he had been refused clearance for the final destination and was informed that clearance was only given on a need-to-know basis and he did not need to know. He explained this to the twins who simply shrugged their shoulders and headed back to pack the rest of their belongings.
Kidnap b-1 Page 8
