The Dolos Conspiracy

by Frank Perry

Although in his mid-fifties, he stayed in shape, weighing a bit more than two hundred pounds. His cruel weathered face reflected the life he’d chosen. He’d been a soldier all of his adult life, first in the military and then contracting for an intelligence agency as a mercenary. As a youth, he’d craved adventure and joined the Special Forces, usually working in small groups outside the main-stream military. He’d learned to kill early in life and later became so hardened that it was almost tedious, murdering people. It didn’t matter if someone explained the reason for killing; he didn’t care after years of it. At some point, the government had judged him unfit for duty and released him … fired with prejudice more accurately. He’d never respected authority and ignored protocol. He became a liability, a “lose cannon,” who nobody wanted on any operating team. That experience, being cast off from the government he’d served for more than thirty years, had embittered him.

  For a time, he’d been lost in booze, feeling sorry for himself. He’d never had a wife and family, nobody to care about. Missions had always interfered. He didn’t regret that part. It had allowed him to roam at will without any ties. However, after being cast away from the government, he still needed to work and he only had one profession. He’d never risen to management levels in the government, and his retirement pay was low. He wasn’t ready for real retirement and had never figured on outliving his final tour of duty. He had only one skill, killing. He wasn’t a clever or even a skilled assassin. He was a soldier who could use a gun. He didn’t practice martial arts and didn’t use explosives.

  He wasn’t even a highly-paid contract killer. He could be hired by a handshake at a bar and collect a few thousand dollars. He wasn’t expensive or elegant. He didn’t torture. He just killed with a gun, sometimes using an entire magazine at short range. He was long past feeling remorse for any victim, regardless of sex or age. It was just business. His only discipline was working out at a gym several times a week. In his “profession,” physical conditioning was important. Even if he could blend in as a late middle-ager to unsuspecting victims, people hired him partially because he looked tough.

  He stayed in the dark, outside on the deck of the boat, beside the salon where all the other passengers were comfortably reading or playing games on their iPhones. He didn’t want contact with anyone who might remember him later. The night wind cut through his short gray hair, and he pulled the coat collar tight around his neck. It was near freezing. The salt air blew in gusts, making if feel twenty degrees colder. His eyes teared and spray pelted him as the large boat surged forward in the darkness. If anyone noticed, they would think he was crazy. Most were seasick from and oblivious to anyone else. He never looked inside and could care less what people thought if they did see him out on deck alone.

  It took almost two hours of cruising over the violent sea under weak starlight. The choppy swells were about six feet tall, causing the boat to pitch downward into the each black swell, causing even more spray, washing the whole deck. He tried to shelter behind parts of the cabin structure in the shadows, but wasn’t completely successful. He was chilled to the bone.

  The boat finally pulled up to the only dock on the island, with Swensen’s closed business, around six o’clock at night. The sun had set almost two hours earlier. He was one of three passengers departing at Matinicus, carrying a silly sports bag for plausibility. It wasn’t much of a disguise; he stood out like a cheerleader at a wake compared to the islanders walking ahead. If he wanted to look like a professional killer, he had succeeded. He hadn’t realized that the island had only a tiny one-industry village … he didn’t blend. He stopped a short distance from the boat, which was already backing away; to let the others get farther ahead. He pulled his old Blackberry from his pocket, dialing a number that had been programmed in the bar in Baltimore where he was hired. There was no answer, so he left a terse text message, announcing his arrival on the island.

  He stopped on the dock, trying to match scenes from her Facebook page with the village surrounding the harbor. It was dark, and the perspective wasn’t certain, but there were a couple houses that looked familiar. There was only one incandescent light on the pier as he walked toward the path ahead, leading to the general store.

  Inside, Ben was standing behind the counter, as always. He had tried to set earlier hours, but people nearby always called him for some emergency, usually involving dinner, so he stayed opened past eight each night, sometimes past nine if a villager wanted to talk. The door creaked open, and he hailed the stranger who looked around with a featureless expression. “Hey, mister, welcome. What can I help you with?”

  The man in the doorway moved slowly, evaluating the store’s interior before taking a soda from the cooler. There was nothing friendly about his expression. Many of the fishermen had a mean appearance also, so Ben wasn’t particularly alarmed as he spoke in a raspy voice, ridged from the cold boat ride. “I need a cottage for rent. Where can I find one?”

  Ben replied, “Well, sir, there’s a couple round about here, but they’s closed for the winter.”

  The man remained motionless with no expression in his face. “I’d still like to talk to the owners. Maybe they’d make an exception for an old man, at least for a night.” He put twenty dollars on the counter. “Keep the change.” It was less of a question – more of a demand.

  Ben smiled. “Well, sir, I know the Swensen’s keeps theirs open even though it’s not normally for rent this time a’year. Want me to call ‘em?”

  His expression never changed -- stiff and mechanical. “Swensen, yes, that’s the name I remember from an ad. Yes, call them. I’d like to see it.”

  Ben picked up his landline receiver and dialed. “Gort, hi, it’s Ben over at the store … yep, still workin’ … Gort, there’s a fellow here a lookin’ for your cottage … Okay then.” Ben hung up the old phone. “Okay, he said to send you right over.”

  “That would be great. How do I find him? His name is Gort, did you say?”

  “Yessir, it’s real easy.” Ben motioned the stranger to the front of the store, looking through the big glass window, facing the harbor. He pointed at the dock. “Ya see that there dock? Well, you just walk down there and turn left when you get almost to the wood part. Just walk along the jetty there, around the harbor. There’s a cement walk there so’s you won’t damage those fine shoes. When you get to about the end, just walk up to the front door of the yellow house and knock. Gort Swensen will take you right over to his cottage.”

  The man thanked Ben and followed his directions, just as Ben had described. In the darkness, along the jetty, he tossed the soda into the harbor, unopened. He stopped midway in the dark and pulled his Glock-23, .40-caliber, from his coat. After he got finished at Swensen’s, he would go back to the store and eliminate the witness, then wait for the morning boat back to Portland. He checked the magazine and cycled a round into the chamber before de-cocking it and returning the gun to his pocket. He didn’t know how many people would be at Swensen’s, but he had five extra magazines, fully loaded. The house was just as Ben described it. He stood in the dark, observing for several moments, evaluating the surroundings. There was dim light coming from somewhere inside the house. With neighbors close by, he couldn’t scout around the perimeter. They were probably just watching TV. These island hicks didn’t have any idea what was about to happen. He felt inside his coat pocket, gripping the gun.

  There was no response to his knock on the door. He stood in the dark and knocked again, harder. He was about to try the door knob when a commanding voice came from behind, “Freeze! … Don’t move … Don’t even move a muscle!” The man initially ignored the instruction and started to turn. “I said, Freeze!”

  He’d been in gunplay before, and some yokel yelling commands didn’t scare him. The guy probably wasn’t armed and if he was, he’d be so nervous that he couldn’t shoot straight. It took steady nerves to use a gun to kill.
It wasn’t about aiming and pulling the trigger, it was about overcoming terror. The killer gripped his pistol tightly inside his pocket. His instinct was to turn and fire quickly, but something in the voice behind stopped him. He could aim and shoot through the coat if needed, and the guy behind probably wasn’t even armed. Talk was cheap. It would be best if he could get rid of him without waking up the whole town. Most people would panic and run. Even if they could shoot, they would almost always miss when facing real danger. They always screw up, sometimes shooting themselves. He wasn’t scared of some islander, even if he wore a badge.

  “I’m not warning you again. One more millimeter and you’re a dead man.”

  Something in that voice told him to stop. There wasn’t a nervous tremor. This guy wasn’t scared. The killer spoke slowly. “Look friend, you don’t know what you’re doing. I have business with Mr. Swensen. Unless that’s you, I suggest that you back away and get the hell out of here.”

  “I’m Swensen as far