Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  Ginger pulled in behind the car and Terry jumped out with the cutting torch in his hand. He threw open the van door and all but flew inside. Ginger pulled into the park, rolling his window down and listening. There was enough vegetation to keep them hidden from sight. It was not long before the sirens came screaming down the road. As soon as they had passed, Ginger pulled out of the park and headed back the way the police had come from.

  The boat and tackle had been returned. They even caught a couple of fish on the way back. The coveralls had been sunk in the dark water of the river. The van was wiped clean and returned. The Holden was jacked up and the spring compressed when the patrol car pulled up behind it. Ginger explained that they had come down for some fishing and told the constable what they had caught. He apologized for doing the work on public land and explained that they had lost a ball joint and needed to replace it. The constable knew a little about the workings of the car’s steering and watched as they popped the ball joint off with the pickle fork and a hammer. He had a short conversation with them about the car itself, told them to work and drive safely and left them to draw the new ball joint into place. They got the work done and left town, stopping for a front-end alignment along the way. The receipts for the parts and the alignment as well as the return of the boat and tackle were kept as proof of where they had been and what they had done. They had no proof for the previous day but if the question ever came up, they were fishing. The receipt for the van was destroyed.

  “You know he played you, right?”

  “He played me? Yeah, he did, he played me. I let that son-of-a-bitch get under my skin. He popped me off so bad I shot him.”

  “That’s what he wanted. He didn’t want to get tortured to death. He knew we were on him hard and there was no way we could let him live. Wouldn’t have, even if we could have. His last hope left him and he knew. So he played you.”

  “I… I don’t care. He told me what I wanted to know. And I finally got some of what I wanted.”

  “How does it make you feel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The first time is always hard. It’s good you had reason or you probably couldn’t have done it.”

  “It feels kind of hollow. Like… like I did it, but it wasn’t really me and it didn’t really happen. I shot him with his own gun and he just sort of exploded. I was so pumped up. He sort of just exploded. You know what, Uncle, it feels good. That piece of rat shit. It feels good.”

  “Don’t get too attached to that feeling. That path leads to madness.”

  “It didn’t feel good that I had him. It scared me. I almost threw up when I burned him. But after I shot him. That’s when it felt good, I guess.”

  “Now, tell me, what are the rules?”

  “Never leave fingerprints. Never talk about it. Never work with the constabulary. Never attract attention to yourself. Never leave witnesses.”

  “Now, what rules did we break?”

  “We left a witness. The new owner of the boat.”

  “What should we do about it?”

  “Kill him?”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No, not really. I don’t think we need to.”

  “Good. I’ll phone him and tell him that the registration has been straightened out. Tell him that there is no more trouble with the insurance and he’ll be happy and hopefully nobody ever asks him about it. I doubt anyone will. But that’s the trade-off. The connection is there, but it’s so much less dangerous to let it lie than to kill another man that we’ll just let it lie. We’re stopping in Sydney on the way home.”

  “Sydney? That’s well out of our way.”

  “A man needs to indulge himself sometimes.”

  “I think I already did.”

  “This is a different sort of indulgence.”

  Before they reached Sydney, Ginger had dyed his hair red again. It did not look right because he was actually beginning to go grey but it made him look younger. He also shaved off his beard.

  In Sydney they went to the Kings Cross area and, as Ginger had said, they indulged themselves. Terry had never had a woman before but his paid partner complimented him repeatedly and it made him feel wonderful. When they drove off, Ginger said, “A man needs that from time to time, eh, mate?”

  Terry looked at him intently. His uncle had never called him “mate” before. He had the feeling he was no longer a boy in Ginger’s eyes. In fact he no longer felt like a boy.

  ~~~

  Chapter Five: Inheritance

  Terry Kingston was no longer the same after his little adventure. He said almost nothing to anyone his first day back at school. He had a nightmare that night about being bound to a wall and seeing Bradley abusing his mother. He could not help her and Bradley leered at him when he pulled out his gun and shot her. He woke up shaking like an impact hammer.

  The dreams where he was chained up were over in a couple of days and replaced by nighttime visions of medieval battles. Sometimes he was watching from a hilltop like a conquering hero and sometimes he was in the thick of it with his sword arm slick with blood and his shield absorbing hammer blows.

  After a week, Terry threw himself into his work. He began to study late into the night, after his chores were done. He still hunted but his primary focus was no longer shooting the animals, it was sneaking up on them. He split cord after cord of wood, until they had enough extra that they began selling it to the neighbors.

  Terry stopped fighting in school. He had plenty of opportunity, mostly from the older class, but he no longer felt it worth his while. He studied the upper class and decided that there was one lad in particular that no one else wanted to fight. He was not much of a fighter really, but he was very big. Terry decided that this was the one that he would make an example of and one day he challenged him to a fight. The upperclassman would not fight him even though Terry called him some rather vile names and impugned the honor of his family. Terry had learned not to turn his back on an enemy but in this case he did it deliberately. The lad charged at him as soon as his back was turned.

  Terry wheeled around and then sidestepped the oaf. His opponent was on the ground without his ever throwing a punch. He was told that the ground was the best place for him to stay, but the big lad was angry now so there was no stopping him. Terry played him like a matador playing a bull, presenting a target for the charge and then moving aside. After doing this four times he knew his opponent would not fall for it again, so he stood his ground, braced himself, and caught the charging fool by the waist. He used the bull’s momentum to pick him up and dropped him on his head. That was the last fight Terry Kingston ever had to get in, all the while he went to that school.

  Research was easier into the affairs of the Troy Brothers than it had been into Bradley’s. They were somewhat notorious, well protected, and deeply feared individuals. They were the accepted heads of a crime syndicate that spanned all but the southernmost part of New South Wales. Their reputations were such that anyone reaching mid-level criminal status was required to pay a tribute to them. They administered the large shipments of drugs and other forms of contraband. They had their fingers in the legal businesses as well. Protection was afforded to those who contributed to their coffers and accidents occurred when one did not. The Australian businessmen were a hard-bitten lot but the Troy Brother’s methods were savage enough to convince even the most hard core individualist to come around. All the houses of manly pleasure paid for their protection, and the protection of their ladies. Any drug dealers above street level needed permission to operate. It was almost as if they bought a license and renewed it monthly.

  There were things the research did not uncover. Much of the constabulary was making extra money by ignoring some things, and acting on others that may have been ignored otherwise. Many of the judges and politicians were on the Troy payroll. Rumor had it that even Colby Carmichael, the Commissioner of Australia’s Taxation Office, was a recipient of the brothers’ largesse.

  It would b
e extremely difficult and dangerous to even ask too many questions about the brothers’ affairs. To get close enough to ask them the kinds of questions Terry Kingston wanted answered would be suicide for most men. Ginger made sure Terry understood that completely.

  Time went by, and Rough and Ready got old. They were the finest of dogs and fantastic with the sheep but they were reaching the age where they would need to be replaced. Ginger bought their replacements as puppies, from the same man he had bought his current canine assistants from. The puppies were naturals. They needed little training, most of what they learned was taught to them by their predecessors. Terry was aware that he was going to need to put the older pair out of their misery soon. Arthritis had set into the dogs’ hips and they were in constant pain.

  When the day came, Terry took them out into the fields one at a time and shot them in the heads with his own .38 revolver. He dug a separate grave for each of them, said a prayer over each of them and went home to clean his gun. It was much more difficult for him to dispatch Pincher, the Doberman. Pincher had been his from the first day they spent together. Pincher also hated every other man on Earth. He was not so unfriendly to women, but Terry was the only man the creature loved. It abided Ginger, but did not like him. It never bit Ginger, but Ginger never turned his back on Pincher. When the day came for Terry to pull his best friend out into the field and put one in his brain he took it very personally. He moped about for days afterward, but he never cried. He had not cried since he was eight years old.

  Terry’s grades had improved substantially by the time he graduated, but he never aspired to a university education. He had effectively distanced himself from the rest of the graduating class. The farmers’ daughters were amenable to his affections, but he could not see being with one of them for long. Romance was not a large component of his personality. He enjoyed sex at any opportunity but traditional love was something that eluded him.

  The one thing that drove Terry was revenge. The question of why his parents had been killed was always there, but it was secondary now. He had not developed a taste for killing; it was not something he enjoyed. He just saw it as a necessity. Everything dies in its time, he reasoned, hastening that demise is sometimes a critical function of a small segment of society.

  1997 was an eventful year, at least the end of that year was. Terry turned 17 December 1st and it was like a Christmas present. The proceeds of The Kingston Agency were turned over to him as well as ownership of said subsidiary. Most 17-year-old boys would have gone mad with a sudden influx of money such as that but Terry was not that sort. He invested much of the money in rock solid stocks and certificates of deposit. He paid Ginger for the bills he had incurred in restoring his vehicle and gave him a handsome present as well. He set up a trust fund that gave Ginger a monthly stipend. Said fund would revert to Terry when Ginger passed away.

  In 1998, after he graduated from high school, Terry took over the operation of the insurance agency, at least in name. The business had done well while in the hands of those his father had entrusted and so the young man saw no reason for changes. The staff was pleased that he had no plans for major changes and delighted that they were allowed to keep their jobs. Terry’s number one requirement was that the staff teach him how to use the new computer system and search the internet. He kept a close eye on the finances and did some research into the past practices of the office. He had suspected that there would be some misappropriation of funds over the years but he could find nothing out of the ordinary. The building itself was looking a bit shabby by that time and he made a few repairs and painted the place inside and out by himself, at his own expense.

  The computer systems were extensive, for the time, and as he learned how to use them, they became his primary research tool. The insurance network, which had originally been only for the Helping Hands Corporation was expanded to enable him to worm his way into the files of other companies as well. This was not legal, of course, but there was so little protection against hackers in those days that it was easy and relatively cheap. He had a university student who was in need of money and amorously involved with a woman that was outside of his price range. The student was happy to install some private programs for a fee.

  Terry took a room in the town of Orange. His father’s house had been sold years before and the proceeds were part of his “coming of age” money. That money had been handled well over the past few years. Terry Kingston could have bought a seaside house if he had wanted one and a Rolls Royce to park in the driveway. He continued to drive the Holden and lived in a room with a kitchen.

  One of his expenses was a subscription to a gym. He made sure there were a large percentage of women at this particular gym. He was not looking for a long-term woman but his chiseled body and inexhaustible energy commanded the interest of many. Short-term women were always available and he took the advice of enjoying himself while he was young.

  The Troy Brothers were in their late forties. They had been in charge of criminal operations since their mid twenties. Their meteoric rise in clandestine operations was due to their complete disregard for moral guidelines. In the last two and a half decades they had directed so many operations that they could barely remember some of the men they had caused to die. They cared nothing for the lives they ruined.

  Adam Troy lived on Unwin Street off Bayview Avenue in the Earlwood area of Sydney. He owned the entire block of land on the south side of Unwin St. that borders Wolli Creek. The house was magnificent and the land itself was very valuable. The fence around the property was patrolled by ruthless men during the day and hungry dogs at night.

  Abel Troy preferred a more central location and was less inclined toward luxury. He owned a hotel on Castlereagh Street in the business district. He kept the top floor of the hotel for himself; the penthouse suite was nowhere near the size of his brother’s estate but it made him feel safer. The elevator no longer made it to the top floor and the two stairwells were locked and guarded. The floor below his residence was filled with offices staffed by employees of their own businesses. There was one other way out. The helicopter pad on the roof housed their favorite mode of transport.

  The brothers conducted business from various locations, many the offices of shell companies that did no actual business but were incorporated nonetheless. Much of their business was legitimate and they were working toward divesting themselves of some of the less savory enterprises. The problem was that they had eliminated any competition at their level and they were loathe to simply set the businesses adrift.

  Adam would leave his mansion in a bulletproof limousine to meet his brother. Abel took the private elevator from the business floor and joined his brother in the rolling fortress when they were going to a different location. They varied their routes and their destinations randomly to prevent being set up. Often enough they conducted business from the upper floor of the hotel. Only legitimate businesses operated there.

  “What’s your plan, mate?” Ginger asked. He had been sober for a while now. He had gone on a drinking jag for a couple of months after the “little job” he had helped Terry with, but that had not lasted.

  “I can’t truly say, Uncle. These men are not the sort of blokes you can walk up to and shoot. I’ve done some reconnaissance but I don’t see any easy mark. I’ve got some contacts in Sydney now, but not anyone of influence. It’s almost impossible to get close to them. They have their men and they’re not looking for new recruits. I can’t just walk up and ask for a job application.

  “I thought I could shoot them from a distance, but they are so well protected that I can’t get a vantage point. I thought about going into the older one’s mansion in Earlwood but the place is like a fortress.”

  “It’s good to see you’re not so bold in your youth, that you think you can do that. You’d never even get in the house.” Ginger relit his cigar. “This one cannot be done physically. You’d need an army of good men and many would die. You need to get inside their minds. The real meaning of
strategy is to know what your enemy is going to do, to prepare for it when they do it, and then to make them do it when you want them to. The best con men in the world are those who leave their mark with a good feeling until the payoff does not show up. The best is when they don’t know they have been conned until it is too late to do anything about it. If you let them know you are watching you will end up dead, so stop. If you let them know they are under attack, they will be prepared for it. That is not always bad, but you must know what they are going to do and make them do it when you want them to do it. Tell me what you know about them.”

  Terry described what he had learned of their habits and routine. One of the worst problems he faced is that when they were not engaged in business, they did not stay together. They acted as if they knew they were targets and wanted to make sure one of them survived if there was an assault. They went to restaurants occasionally, never together, and it was never predictable where they would go. The outside of the eatery was always well guarded while one of them was inside.

  “You’re still thinking of walking up to them and shooting them. These men cannot be taken that way. They have good protection. The only place they are vulnerable is in their information flow. They must be fed information that causes them to believe something that is not true and then capitalize on that misinformation. The only way you can do that is to hit them in the wallet. That means you need information that only members of their organization can give you or perhaps God himself.”

  “There may be someone else… I can’t tip my hand too soon, though. I’m going to need identification that reads something other than Kingston. I cannot chance them remembering they had my father killed and putting two and two together.”