Sigma Division

by Steve Richer

  Synopsis

  Shooting traitors in the head used to be easy for legendary CIA hitman Gene Spicer. Not anymore. Killing for the government is making him break out in a cold sweat. So he's looking forward to being reassigned to a desk job with Sigma Division, a highly classified department protecting America's most devastating secrets.

  But old habits die hard when his suspicions are aroused. A routine investigation into a government whistleblower leads him to stumble upon a secret that could cost him his life. Sigma Division has secrets of its own and people are willing to kill for them.

  Picking up his gun and shooting traitors in the head – the one thing Spicer doesn't want to do anymore – might be the only way to save the very existence of democracy. And the clock is ticking...

  * * *

  Sigma Division

  By Steve Richer

  Copyright © 2015 Steve Richer

  The cover art for this book makes use of licensed stock photography. All photography is for illustrative purposes only and all persons depicted are models.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Also by Steve Richer

  The Kennedy Secret

  The Gilded Treachery

  The Atomic Eagle

  Dying For Money

  The Apprentice Spy

  Barbie Cute

  Wall Street Ranger

  Business, Pleasure and Murder

  Chapter 1

  Budapest was one of the most beautiful cities in Europe but Spicer barely noticed. He’d been all over the world but never took the time to go sightseeing. That was the life of a government assassin.

  It was a lot like being a mechanical equipment salesman, he judged. You spent every night in a different motel, visiting cities that were only names on a map, and then you moved on. And Spicer couldn’t wait to move the hell on from this country.

  “Yes,” he said in passable Hungarian into the phone. “Don’t forget the extra cheese. Köszönöm.”

  He hung up and looked outside the window of his sad-looking hotel room. He could see the Parliament resting against the Danube. There were newer buildings in the background but the Parliament was the tallest structure in in all of Hungary. It was glowing with scintillating lights. Nearby was Gellért Hill, standing guard majestically over the river. At the foot was the famous Danubius Hotel Gellért.

  Spicer wished he could have stayed there instead of this place. He was sharing accommodation with three cockroaches and the bed sheets hadn’t been changed in a while, he was certain of it. It didn’t matter, he had stayed in worse. He went to refill his glass of scotch – a substandard East European brand – and he simply stared at the alcohol as it slowly melted the ice.

  His face was rugged, not from the booze or even the job. From weariness. This was a young man’s game. He hadn’t been young in a long time. He had been working for the government in one capacity or another for over 30 years. That was enough.

  Before he knew it, his hand was shaking, rattling the ice. He strengthened his grip and gulped the whole thing at once, letting the burning sensation soothe him. He needed this more and more these days before a job. Never a good sign.

  At long last, Spicer stood up and pulled on a dark sweater over his undershirt. Once he was comfortable, he kneeled next to the bed and pulled out a small red gym bag. He brought it up to the unsteady table by the window, curtains closed, and spilled the contents.

  There was a small makeup kit, some wigs and facial hair, and more importantly a black pouch the size of a frisbee. It was made of a fuzzy, steel wool-like material. From it he retrieved a Taurus PT-99AF pistol as well as a tubular sound suppressor. The handgun was a Brazilian version of the Beretta 92, sometimes deemed unreliable, but Spicer loved how familiar he was with the model.

  He slid the chamber back for a quick inspection and made sure that the weapon was loaded. Without ceremony, he then shoved the gun down the back of his pants and pocketed the sound suppressor. He grabbed his leather jacket and slipped into it before stuffing the pockets with a wig and a baseball cap.

  And now for the fun part…

  He turned on the TV, which was surprisingly modern for this shabby hotel, and found the pay-per-view button on the remote. Without wasting time, he scrolled through the choices, went down to the adult section, and ordered the timeless masterpiece My First Orgy. It didn’t take long for screams of passion to fill the room and he cranked up the volume so it could be heard from the hallway. In his experience, purchasing $20 worth of porn always made for a great alibi.

  He patted his pockets to make sure he had everything and left the room. After confirming that the door was locked, he carefully hung up the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. He was satisfied that he could hear the actress getting properly serviced on TV. It wasn’t too loud for other guests to complain, just perfect.

  From there the mission was a matter of stealth and deception. Spicer went down the emergency stairs and left the hotel through a service entrance. He walked two blocks, got into a car rented with fake papers, and drove off after putting on a white wig, a matching mustache, and the hat.

  * * *

  Marton Szabo was proud of his sumptuous home and even prouder of his family. He thought the two went well together. He thought of it as harmony. No, synergy. He was a scientist and couldn’t help trying to make sense of balance in nature. His family was perfectly balanced.

  His wife Enikö was leaning over to cut their son’s meat while the nine-year-old fidgeted, waiting for her to finish.

  “Today we saw a huge frog and the teacher said that if go to the zoo around Christmas we can see more of them.”

  Enikö turned to their younger daughter who was fiddling with her vegetables. “Eat your carrots, darling.”

  “Carrots taste like shoes.”

  She made a face of disgust which Marton could barely resist. He had to force himself not to smile. Instead, he turned to his son.

  “Maybe we can go to the zoo if you have good grades in your exams, yes?”

  The boy nodded and Marton grinned. Yes, that was what it meant to be a family. You sat at the head of the table and looked upon your dominion. Sometimes a few lashes with a belt were necessary but it was for their own good. His wife understood that. She did now, anyway.

  The children behaved and after dinner was over he sent them to bed. He always tucked in his son last.

  “You know daddy, when I grow up I’m going to be a scientist, just like you.”

  Marton was taken aback by that. Last week, the boy had wanted to be an astronaut.

  “That’s great, son. But you need good grades for that. You need to be rested to get them. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight.”

  He kissed his son and winked at his wife who was observing them from the door frame.

  “Are you coming to bed?” she asked as he walked out of the room.

  “Not now, I have some work to do first. Don’t wait up.”

  He went into his study, a crowded old library with ancient books he had never read, and closed the door while he booted up his computer. He turned on his desk lamp before going to a small safe hidden in the wall behind a Vermeer lithograph. He punched in the code and finally produced a small device the size of a wristwatch.

  He sat at his desk and proceeded to log onto the Internet through a secure VPN service. Then it was only a matter of accessing the dark net through Tor
software. He typed in his destination but before he could connect to the Iranian-funded site he had to type in three different 14-digit passwords.

  He turned to the small device he’d gotten from the safe and dialed in the time and date. This gave him a password on the small LCD screen. He promptly entered it in the computer. He counted 17 seconds for the website and the device to synchronize and this gave him another code. Finally, another 8 seconds went by and a third password was available.

  When he was logged in, he smiled. It always gave him a thrill to practice his spycraft. It was such a pleasant diversion from his regular scientific duties. He was about to launch into his work when the doorbell rang.

  “Szar.” Shit.

  Procedure was paramount. He logged out and returned the password device to the safe before heading out to see who it was.

  On the porch stood a pizza delivery man in a gaudy uniform. He was smiling and he lifted his white box for effect.

  “Good evening 3,124 forints please.”

  “I didn’t order anything.”

  “You’re Marton Szabo? Because this is the right address. Extra cheese?”

  “We had dinner already, this must be a prank.” Marton fishes into his pocket for a few forints. “Here, for your trouble.”

  The pizza man was confused but this happened surprisingly often. “Fine, thanks.”

  The scientist closed the door, cursed the waste of time, and returned to his office. He should have told his wife to get the door instead. He shouldn’t be so soft on her.

  As he entered the study and shut the door, he noticed some movement to the right. Looking up, a man stepped out of the shadows.

  While Spicer raised his arm, the silenced handgun coming up, the leather jacket made a friction noise and Marton spun toward the assassin.

  His eyes grew wide but his throat tightened, his voice refusing to come out. All he could do was braced himself.

  Spicer aimed at the scientist’s head and in less than a second he pulled the trigger twice. Both bullets hit the man in the head.

  He approached the motionless body, the head bleeding out. Spicer’s was sweating and his gloved hand was trembling again. He took a deep breath, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and shot the man one last time in the forehead.

  Chapter 2

  The office was on the sixth floor, facing south, and from its size it was reasonable to assume that its occupant had a fairly important position. While the highest level of the Central Intelligence Agency hierarchy was on the seventh floor, this particular office was the pride and joy of Doug Kilmer. Spicer remembered how he had smugly showed it off after landing it several years back.

  And he had every reason to be happy. Offices with windows, especially one this large, were rare at the CIA where most people were herded into secure vaults. While Kilmer was at his sideboard, pouring two cups of coffee from his private espresso machine, Spicer stared through the glass. Virginia was a sight to behold, trees in various shades of red and yellow.

  “That was outstanding work in Budapest, Gene,” Kilmer said as he handed a mug to Spicer.

  The hitman nodded somberly, looking at the coffee and yet not even tasting it. Killing someone who sold state secrets and facilitated terrorism was no longer cause for celebration as far as he was concerned.

  “I can’t do this shit anymore, Doug.”

  Kilmer rounded his desk and sat down in his throne-like swivel chair. “Have you talked with Doctor Palmer?”

  “What’s a shrink gonna tell me? Good going? Hang in there big guy? Come on, be realistic.” He finally took a sip and set the coffee down on the desk. “I’m beyond shrinks. I don’t believe in what I’m doing anymore.”

  “Really?”

  Spicer sighed. “We go back a long way you and me. I believe in the greater picture of it all but what I do is unreal, man. There should be other ways.”

  He even had trouble understanding how he had gone from a well-adjusted teenager to a veteran government assassin. He remembered watching the Grenada invasion on TV in 1983 and how triumphant he had felt. In one swift military campaign, America had defeated communism. The next day he had joined the Army at the ripe old age of 17.

  He took to military life like a duck to water and within a few years he had joined Special Forces. By Operation Just Cause, the invasion of Panama in 1989, he was in military intelligence. It was during this campaign that he got his start in wet work.

  In hindsight, it was probably the easiest kill of his career but at the time it had been a big deal. He had been part of a recon mission in Panama City before US forces showed up en masse and there were reports that a local politician was actually working for the KGB, that he could make the transition of leadership difficult.

  Citing his special ops background and since CIA personnel were under surveillance, Spicer was tasked with taking the subject out. It was sloppy, a back alley stabbing disguised as a mugging gone wrong, but it was successful and the Soviets never suspected anything. Soon after, Spicer was recruited by the Agency.

  The work was sparse at first, the demise the Communist Bloc having softened the need for targeted assassinations. However, this soon gave way to the rise of Islamic extremism, especially after the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993. Spicer was instrumental in the integration of Special Activities Division’s SOG and JSOC operators after 9/11 for mission-specific kills.

  He enjoyed the work in the beginning, it made him feel part of the good guys again, but before long he was moved back to his even more clandestine missions. Congress tacitly approved of the CIA’s paramilitary operations; what Spicer did was completely off the books. After all these years the loneliness was getting to him.

  He had known Kilmer since he’d joined the Agency. A few years older – and looking at decade younger – he had always been his contact, if not his superior. He was the only real friend he had.

  “Have you really thought this through?”

  Spicer stared at a loose paperclip on the desk, unable to look at his friend.

  “My hands start shaking, I throw up half the time. I don’t wanna lose my mind, Doug. I’d rather draw a pension than a disability check, you know?”

  Kilmer quietly nodded. “God knows I hate losing a good officer but there’s no doubt you’ve served the company well. You still have a few years before you get the full retirement package, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I assume you’ll want a transfer.”

  “If it’s possible,” Spicer said, finally meeting the other man’s eyes. “Something not too demanding.”

  “Are you willing to move in town from Miami?”

  “Sure. You have something in mind?”

  Kilmer paused like he was unsure if he wanted to say what was on his mind. Then he went ahead. “There’s a spot available that I’ve heard about, it’s with Sigma Division.”

  “Never heard of ‘em?”

  “That’s the whole idea. They’re pretty much an officially non-official service.”

  “How come you know?”

  “Since you and I are almost as non-official, I always hear things I’m not supposed to hear. Basement creatures always wind up running into each other.”

  Spicer couldn’t deny that. He asked, “What’s the job anyway?”

  “Head of Security.”

  “I wanna make something good of my life. That doesn’t sound too peaceful.”

  “I truly don’t know. I’ll set up a meeting.”

  That was a good start.

  * * *

  The next morning, Spicer was summoned to the office of Gerald Houseman and this time it was located on the seventh floor. The office was easily twice the size of Kilmer’s with a sitting area and small conference table in addition to the working area. Houseman himself was well into his 80s though he looked robust and spry.

  “Welcome to Sigma Division, Mr. Spicer.”

  Wearing a suit for once, Spicer shook his hand and then noticed another man standing
in the corner. He was slightly less wrinkled, he was probably only in his early 40s.

  “This is Dr. Michaels, my right arm and probably a bit of my shoulder too.”

  “Hi,” Spicer said as he shook his hand as well.

  Houseman invited everyone to sit on the couches by the window. No coffee was offered but there pastries on the low table.

  “Mr. Kilmer sent over your track record, very impressive. I see that officially, you’re employed under the Directorate for Support.”

  It was halfway between a statement and a question.

  “Yes, Office of Security.”

  Michaels asked, “You have an office there?”

  “Never really used it, but I do.”

  “Good.”

  “Officially,” Houseman began, “I’m the Assistant Deputy Director for Science and Technology. But my main task is head of the Sigma Division.”

  “And what is Sigma exactly?”

  Both men exchanged glances as if they needed to be sure if they wanted to share this information. Dr. Michaels took the wheel.

  “Sigma Division is about giving a handful of people the managerial power over the government’s most top secret projects.”

  “Like DARPA?” Spicer asked, referring to the Department of Defense’s mad scientist chamber of fun.

  “No, much more sensitive, secretive projects.”

  “Smart, you minimize security risks.”

  Houseman smiled with approval. “Precisely. We’ve got a higher clearance than the President. What we’re offering you is the position of Head of Security for the division.”

  “Sounds to me like you got the security pretty much taken care of.”

  “There’s always the possibility of leaks, mostly from the outside. People trying to find out what we’re doing, that sort of thing. We are able to keep cyber attacks to a minimum, thanks to our anonymity and devoted employees, but we're more vulnerable when it comes to human assets. You’ll also take care of background checks.”