Headhunters

by Charlie Cole

  I pulled the Styrofoam container of steaming gravy from the bag and loosened the lid. It still held on by one side, but it would come loose when I wanted. I picked up the bag again in my left hand and walked to the corner of the house. The agent was still there, facing away but no longer on his radio. I inhaled deeply, then tried to control my breathing, my heart rate. Tried to focus. Tried to remember my training.

  When Kendrick had started Blackthorn, he had made a deal that his key personnel be trained in a customized training program only for us. We were to operate as ghosts, invisible, trained to get in and do our jobs and disappear. Having said that, if things ever went south for us, we needed to be trained to deal with it. I was never trained to be a field agent. I was no James Bond. But I was trained in escape and evasion techniques, specifically in urban environments. I could run. I could drive a car. I was trained to fire a gun. And I was trained in unarmed combat.

  The intention was never to make me or anyone else in the program martial arts experts. What we did was simple and brutal. We were trained in Krav Maga, the fighting system used by the Israeli Defense Forces. But unlike the civilians that practice Krav Maga, we were trained in lethal techniques. We knew exactly what it would take to bring about the swift, painful death of anyone that got between us and the exit.

  I took a deep breath and walked around the corner of the house and directly for the agent in front of me. I kept my eyes off of him, looking just over his shoulder. There is something about one trained person being stalked by another… they can sense when someone is getting close, holding them in their sights.

  I was six steps away when he cocked his head at the sound of my footfalls. At four steps, he was turning, his eyes finding mine, first going wide in shock, then narrowing in anger. He reached for the radio in the collar of his jacket. At two steps away, he realized my intent and tried to reach for his pistol but never made it. I flicked the top off the pint of hot gravy and threw it at his face.

  To his credit, he ducked and for a split second I thought I was screwed and about to be shot in my own backyard, but then I heard his howl of pain. The gravy had clung to his skin and burned his ear. His hands went to the scalded skin. I didn’t break stride, dropping the bag of Chinese food and kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs. I heard a sickening crack and hoped I’d done some damage. He grunted in pain and tried to grab me with his right hand, his left still clawing at his ear. I ducked back, sidestepped and whipped a low kick at the back of his leg. He dropped to one knee and I swung my right fist in a short arc and broke his nose. Blood erupted and he covered it with both hands, falling backwards onto the ground.

  I lifted the tail of his suit coat on his right side and found his sidearm. It was a Glock 19, similar to my own, but larger and carried more ammunition in the magazine. I jerked it from its holster and quickly turned in a tight circle. No one was coming. No third guard. I was still okay. I looked back at the agent. He was still writhing in pain, but starting to compose himself. I couldn’t have that. I kneeled on his ribs where I’d kicked him a moment before and his eyes went wide with pain. I wasn’t sure if he knew that I had taken his sidearm so I held the muzzle of the gun over his right eye socket.

  “I have no reason not to kill you,” I said. “Give me a reason not to kill you.”

  “Okay…”

  “Where’s Kendrick?”

  “Inside… inside the house.”

  “Where are my kids?”

  “Inside the house… with him.”

  I looked around. Still clear.

  “How many of you are there?”

  Suddenly, he stopped answering my questions. I didn’t have time to waste.

  “I bet you were a good shot at the Farm, hunh?” I prompted him. “I bet you were just the “eagle eye” out there, right?”

  “Damn right,” he growled.

  I jammed the muzzle into his eye a little harder, making him wince.

  “Not anymore,” I said. “Kiss it good-bye, you son of a bitch.”

  “Wait! Wait!” the agent pleaded. I let up on my pressure and he started breathing again.

  “How many?”

  “Two,” he said. “Just me and Vaughn… in the front.”

  “And who are you?” I asked.

  “Special Agent Roger Brock,” he replied.

  “Well, Special Agent Brock… I recognize you and your partner. From the cemetery… from the funeral… So, let me just tell you one thing. If I ever see you around me again… I’ll be giving your wife an American flag over your casket.”

  Brock’s eyes flared, but before he could move, I clubbed him with the Glock. He’d have a nasty bruise, but he was still alive if only unconscious. I stood, took another look around and picked up my Chinese food. I dropped the Glock into my coat pocket and entered through the back door of my house.

  The house was quiet, still, and it disturbed me. Then I heard a voice, his voice. Randall Kendrick. He was in the front room, talking in a way that seemed different from normal conversation. I pushed opened the door from the kitchen to the dining room then entered the living room. And there he was.

  Randall Kendrick was sitting in my chair beside the fireplace. On his left knee was Melissa. On his right knee was David. And he looked ever the part of the doting grandfather. He had his arms around them and was holding a book in front of them, reading it to them in his bearlike voice. When he saw me, he did not stop reading the children’s book, but continued on as if he knew this part from memory.

  “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” Kendrick recited, his eyes focused on mine. “Or I’ll huff… and I’ll puff… and I’ll blow your house in…”

  The bastard was staring at me, threatening me in my own home, from my own chair, holding my children hostage in his little charade of civility

  “Randall!” I said and forced a welcoming tone into my voice. “How are you?”

  Randall lips spread into a tight grin.

  “Good, son. I’ve been good,” he replied, watching me. “Here you go now, children…” Randall encouraged the kids to get down and they ran to Alaina, none the wiser, asking her to read the book. He stood then and extended his hand to me. I took it and we shook hands like the friends we had been.

  “How’s Rose?” I asked, inquiring about Randall’s deceased wife. He betrayed only a glint in his eye when I verbally attacked him. He’d keep things civil in front of my family. I presumed that at least and hoped that I wasn’t wrong. But I also had to think that he was doing this for his benefit as well. He wanted to talk to me about something he knew I’d react to. That’s why he’d come to the house.

  “About the same,” Randall breathed, then I saw his face break into a Cheshire grin and he looked over my shoulder to the swinging kitchen door. There stood Agent Brock, his right arm bent and guarding his ribs where I’d kicked him. With his other hand, he was holding his handkerchief to his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. Behind him was Agent Vaughn and I recognized him as the other agent from the cemetery. Vaughn’s eyes were narrowed, analyzing the situation.

  “Sorry, but I guess I didn’t bring enough Chinese food for everyone,” I said.

  Randall laughed behind me and Brock only glared.

  “Quite alright, Simon,” Randall said. “I just need a moment of your time.”

  “Of course. Alaina? Do you mind?”

  I offered the bag to Alaina and she took it, calling the kids to come and help. She looked at Brock and made a face.

  “Ew… I mean… are your okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” Brock answered.

  “Sorry about that back step,” I offered. “I will have to fix that.”

  I laughed good-naturedly and Alaina and the kids disappeared into the kitchen to plate up the food. Once they were out of earshot, I turned to Randall.

  “What the hell is going on?” I growled.

  “We need to talk alone,” Randall said, looking at his men.

  Reluctantly they began to w
alk toward the front door, but I wasn’t quite through with them.

  “Hey.”

  They turned and I offered the Glock to Brock, butt first.

  “Don’t come around here again.”

  Brock didn’t say anything, but took the Glock in his left hand and pocketed it. They left through the front door without another word. I turned back to Randall.

  “Have a seat,” I said. “Looks like you’ve already made yourself at home.”

  “Simon, I apologize for coming here like this,” Randall began. “But the situation is what it is. What do you know about Max Donovan?”

  “I know what you told me. I know that I work for him,” I said, scoffing. There wasn’t any point in tipping my hand yet. “What is this all about?”

  “Max Donovan is a black hat,” Randall offered. “He’s one of the bad guys. He cracks corporations for profit and then sells the information. He’s a techno-terrorist.”

  “That’s a lie. I’ve never seen anything to indicate that.”

  “Really?” Randall asked. “What’s his involvement in the DHS?”

  “DHS?” I asked, as if it were news to me. “Homeland Security?”

  “Stop it, Simon. I know you’re working on the project.”

  I studied Randall, wondering if he was bluffing, knowing that he wasn’t. I considered the possibility that he wasn’t really fishing for information.

  “I’m working on a federal project, yes. How does this concern Blackthorn business?”

  “Let’s stop playing games here, son. I know that Donovan is working with the DHS. I know he’s doing security audits. I know that you helped recruit and build the team that’s testing security.”

  “You know a lot,” I said.

  “What you don’t know is that the team you built has been turned.” “Turned?” I asked, genuinely not understanding.

  “Your DHS team… they’re assets. Assets that can work for either side. Max Donovan told you they were assets to be used to improve security. I’m telling you that Donovan is using them to exploit security.”

  “And how do you know that?” I asked.

  “Because he’s offering to sell the information to me,” Randall replied.

  I pondered that information for a moment. What Kendrick was saying wasn’t impossible. It confirmed what I’d seen in the memo. And why else would Kendrick be approaching me unless it was true?

  “Wait… when did you know this about Max?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did you know that Max was a black hat? That he was selling information?” I asked.

  Kendrick weighed me and I knew the answer before he said a word.

  “You bastard…” I breathed. “You recruited me… you knew from the beginning.”

  “I didn’t know, Simon… I swear it to you,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything to him at first.

  “You suspected.” It wasn’t a question.

  “I didn’t know for sure,” he shrugged.

  I stood suddenly and Randall rocked back in his chair, unsure if I was going to come for him or not. To be honest, I didn’t know myself.

  “You… did this… to keep me in,” I breathed. I tried to temper my voice, to keep myself under control. “My wife is dead because of my devotion to the work I did for you and after she was gone, you wanted to keep me in…”

  “Simon, I…” Randall began.

  “No, not another word…”

  “People could die because of what Max Donovan is going to do,” Randall said.

  “People have already died because of what you’ve done,” I shot back. “Get out of my house. Get out of my life.”

  Randall Kendrick stood slowly, his shoulders slumped. He was defeated. I had turned him away. The one person he’d turned to time and again and I’d turned him down flat.

  “Randall…” I said, as he reached the door. He turned and looked at me, his eyes reddened and sad. “I need to be clear about something now. We’ve been friends for a long time. But this… you betrayed me, man. You betrayed my trust. You’ve invaded my house and staked out my yard with agents like I’m a terrorist. I want to be fair about this and draw the line where it needs to fall. If you come near me or my family again, I will set your world on fire and watch it burn. Can you understand that?”

  I’d been calm in telling him this, my intention to give fair warning, not to threaten. Randall nodded and then the smallest smile crept across his face.

  “Simon, we’re more alike than you know.”

  And then he was gone.

  ***

  We had dinner together that night. Mel and David were their usual playful selves. David picked at his food, excluding certain foods arbitrarily. Others, like the dumplings, he scarfed down. I could tell Alaina was watching me, but not really knowing. Finally, she blurted out her question across the dinner table.

  “Were those…?” she began. I knew she was referring to Brock and Vaughn.

  “Yep.”

  “And did you…?” she pointed at her nose with her fork.

  “Yes, I did.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  “Good,” she said finally.

  I looked up from my plate and she was smiling faintly.

  “So you really know how to…?”

  “A little bit, yes…” I replied.

  She stewed on that.

  “Cool.”

  ***

  After dinner, I put the kids to bed and read them a proper bedtime story. On my way downstairs I saw the book Kendrick had been reading to the kids. I picked it up and deposited it in the kitchen garbage can, pulled the bag out, and walked it out to the can by the garage.

  With a moment alone, I pulled my cell from my pocket and dialed Jess.

  “Hello?” she said a moment later.

  “Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, reading my voice from that single word.

  “Been better.”

  “Let me know if there’s something I can do…” her voice trailed off and I knew she was concerned about me.

  “Really, I’m okay,” I said. “Listen… I don’t really want to get into it over the phone, but maybe we could talk tomorrow.”

  “Simon, we talk every day,” I could tell she was smiling from the way she said it.

  “I know. I’m just thinking about us… about the future…”

  “Hmm…” She said. I could tell she meant more than what she said, but I understood the context. “Good stuff?”

  “Good stuff,” I replied. I knew she was thinking more amorous than business, but I wanted to start a business with her, get away from Max and all the baggage that entailed. Maybe things weren’t that far gone. Maybe I could still get away without having to run away.

  “Well, talk to you tomorrow,” I said.

  “’Night,” she replied and hung up softly.

  I made my way up to bed and settled in. I tried to block out the thoughts of the day. I knew that if Randall Kendrick wanted to do me harm, he’d find a way, but he’d come to my house, sat in my chair and never raised a finger.

  I tossed and turned in my bed for a while and finally rolled over, found the remote and turned on the TV. I watched Jay Leno’s monologue, both guests, and then flipped around until Conan O’Brien came on… I was beginning to doze near the end of his show when my cell phone rang. I sat up and had to orientate myself again. Cell was in the pocket of my pants over the chair. I retrieved it and answered before the third ring.

  “Hello?”

  “Simon…” the voice came across in a harsh whisper. “Simon…”

  “Who… who is this?”

  “It’s Chris… Chris Swenson…”

  “Chris, it’s late. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, man. I thought I was supposed to meet you here. That’s what the e-mail said…”

  “What? What e-mail? Chris you’re not making any sense…”

  “I got an e-mail from you saying
to meet you at the Donovan offices in Chicago to talk about the DHS project. I came on the first flight back out of Reagan National.” “Chris, I never e-mailed you.” I was awake now and on alert.

  Chris cursed under his breath.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Someone was in the building, waiting for me,” Chris said, still whispering.

  “Waiting for you?” I asked.

  “They’re trying to kill me…” Chris wheezed.

  I tried to reply but before I could, I heard the distinctive sound of a silenced gunshot followed by short scream of pain and panic. The line went dead.

  Chapter Eight

  I parked the Volvo in my usual spot and jumped out, sprinting for the door. I threw it open and ran across the skywalk. I noticed that the security guard’s desk was vacant. I wasn’t familiar with the nocturnal activities of corporate security but leaving one’s post unattended didn’t seem to be standard operating procedure. I ran past the desk and hesitated when I saw the elevators. The elevators had security cameras and I wasn’t ready for that kind of exposure. I threw open the door to the stairwell and pounded up one flight after another.

  At the seventh floor, I paused to catch my breath. I reached under my shirt and unholstered the Glock 26. In the movies, the heroes always checked to make sure the gun was loaded or pulled back the slide to chamber a round before leaping into the fray. In reality, you don’t get this far only to realize you came with an empty gun. Either you’re ready, or you’re not. I reached for the door and readied myself for what waited on the other side.

  I threw the door open and came in low, moving to my right, away from the doorway, into the shadows until my shoulder hit the far wall. The Glock was pushed out in front of me, scanning for targets. I saw none. Nothing was moving. The place was dark and quiet, just as it should be.

  For a moment I wondered if it was a sick joke on Chris’ part. Had he called me to hassle me? To make me leap out of bed and look like a fool, rushing to save him from some imaginary demise? Chris could be a jokester, but he wasn’t the sort to do something like this.

  I kept low, in a crouch, and followed the line of cubicles down one side of the office space. Nothing. I paused, peeked up over the top of the partitions. Prairie-dogging, they called it, when you poked your head up to look out over the cubicle farm. It was then that I saw movement across the office. A figure running.