Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  The romance blossomed over the next couple of weeks. Terry did some work on the farm, showing Paul how to replace the head gasket on a tractor, and walking the fence lines. He took Linda to see some of the Olympic Games in Sydney, took her to a movie and generally wined and dined her. He was careful not to respond to the looks Lisa gave him. Lisa was clearly jealous and would have given Terry a ride if he had wanted, but that was not on his agenda. Besides, Linda was all he could handle at present. It was like she was making up for years of lost time.

  After a couple of weeks, Linda finally told Terry how she had gotten the scars on her backside.

  “He was finally caught,” she said. “His viciousness caught up to him when he shot a man. You knew he was a constable, right?”

  “No, you never said.”

  “Well, he was. He came home pissed and angry and put the handcuffs on me and whipped me with his belt. That was when I left him. If I’d had a gun I would have shot him. I hear tell he’s got lots of guns now. Of course, he tried to tell me how sorry he was and that it would never happen again, but I knew if I let it go once, it would never stop.”

  “That’s it then. I’m going to kill him.”

  “No! You’ll never get close to him. Lee is a terribly dangerous man. He might shoot you if he knew we were engaged.”

  “Are we engaged?”

  “Well,” she said coyly, “in what we are engaged in.”

  “What you don’t know is that I am a terribly dangerous man as well.”

  “Oh, you certainly are.” She reached out her hand and found what she wanted, already primed.

  “How bad do you want this done?”

  “Oh, I want it.”

  “No, I mean how bad do you want him punished?”

  “What on earth are you asking and why do we need to talk about him?”

  “He chained you and whipped you. He left scars on your beautiful bottom and for that he needs to be punished.”

  She let go of his manhood and looked him in the eye. “You’re serious. You really want to kill him?”

  “Yes, I really want to kill him.”

  “Oh, how romantic.” There was no more conversation for some time.

  In the sweaty afterglow Terry asked her, “What would you be willing to do to see him get his just rewards?”

  Lee Pierce was astonished to see his ex-wife at his trailer door. He had not wanted the divorce and had beaten himself up emotionally for a long time over it. He had tried several times to reestablish their acquaintance but it had been in vain. His letters had gone unanswered and she would not talk to him on the telephone. Now, here she was, looking wonderful to him and talking about getting back together. It was too good to be true.

  Lee and Linda went on a few dates together and talked about the good times, but she would not sleep with him. At the end of the day she got back in her car and drove off. After a week, it was driving him mad.

  It was the beginning of November, the middle of spring, when Linda showed up at Lee’s trailer door looking like she had been run through a blender. She would not allow Lee to touch her but asked if she could use his bathroom to clean up. There was blood on her torn clothing and both her eyes were swollen and bruised. While she was trying to get the blood off her shirt she told her ex-husband about the truck driver who had raped and beaten her. She didn’t know his name but he was driving an International and heading south from Brisbane. He had raped her after forcing her into his truck at Newcastle and had left her in there, tied up. The abrasions on her wrists were all the proof she needed of that. She had written his license plate number on her shirt. It was all that was necessary to send Lee Pierce into a murderous rage.

  As soon as Lee was gone, Linda Pierce opened her trunk and took out a package wrapped in a blanket. After leaving the package in the trailer, she got back in her car and headed for the nearest police station. She walked in and announced in a loud voice that she had just been assaulted by her ex-husband. He had beaten her for refusing him sex and then threatened her with a gun. She claimed he had gone into a rage and left her at the trailer. Her statement contained the quote “If I stay here I’m going to kill you.”

  The man driving the International South from Brisbane was completely innocent. There was nothing in his truck but sundries, imported from South America. He had no idea why the man in front of him kept jamming on his brakes but would not let him pass either. It was obvious that there was going to be a problem so he fished his tire thumper out from behind the seat and prepared to defend himself.

  It was not the Irishman’s usual modus operandi to send a message claiming the destruction, before the destruction had been accomplished, but in this instance he did. The message he left spoke of the job in the past tense as if he had already done it, but the truck indicated as having destroyed was pumping down the road in fine order. Gordon followed the identified truck south after spotting it from the northbound lane and making a quick u-turn. He had spoken to his intern, as he had taken to calling Terry, who had promised he would be waiting at an entrance and would be behind him before he knew it.

  When the Jeep passed him at high speed and pulled in front of the truck, Gordon got ready. The man in the Jeep was clearly trying to stop the truck.

  The truck stopped and an angry driver got out with a two-foot length of pipe. He was large and would have been able to thump most unarmed men. The man that jumped out of the jeep was far from unarmed, however. The man held a Smith and Wesson 1911 in each hand and as the driver turned to get back into his truck, Lee Pierce shot him through the back. He walked up to the prone truck driver and was obviously about to shoot him in the head when Gordon opened fire with a Glock 22. The .40 caliber rounds from the Glock blew large holes in their target but did not prevent Lee from putting a round in the innocent driver’s head as he died. Gordon paused only to put one in Lee’s head and then leaped back into his vehicle and drove off at high speed.

  “Yes, it was a damn sloppy operation on both our parts,” Gordon said. “Both the primaries are dead but I cannot be sure I did not get seen. I would hate for some well meaning citizen to come out and say I was the one they saw shoot a man on the road. I’ll be in hiding for a while, at least until the police decide they don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

  “You are sure this was the Irishman then?” Abel was as gracious as always, regardless of the fact that he was discussing a double murder. He smoothed his tie and examined his nails.

  “Yes, sir. This was our man. He sent a premature message this time but the voice was the same. I have ended the Irishman’s reign of terror. I expect payment will now be forthcoming.”

  “Of course. A job well done. You will need to go to the warehouse on Barclay Street, after five. You will be paid there.”

  “I had assumed I was to be paid here.”

  “I’m sorry, Adam and I never handle cash. It’s so dirty. Do you know where the Barclay Street warehouse is?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Abel saw the cloud cover his specialist’s face and asked if there was something wrong. The man said no and left quickly.

  The Barclay Street warehouse was the one where Gordon had seen Victor Wellington tortured to death. He wondered what he might be expecting when he got there. He considered calling Terry for backup but, while he trusted the young man as much as an assassin can trust anyone, he did not have enough faith in his judgment. He also wanted not to be the cause of his death.

  After five o’clock the warehouse area was empty of traffic but well patrolled by the police. They were bored with their uneventful but necessary routine and usually gathered at the coffee shop about midnight.

  Gordon waited for the patrol to pass the area a bit after eight and climbed the fire escape to the roof across the road. Through the scope he could see men sitting around a desk in an office, playing cards. He took out his cell phone and made a call. Half an hour later a car pulled up and a man carrying a pizza got out and banged on the employee’s entrance.
The men inside pulled out their pistols, went to the door, and absolutely terrified the young man trying to bring them the pizza they had not ordered.

  Gordon was disappointed that he was unable to see the full interaction but he trusted his instincts. It would not be the first time a powerful man had retained his services and expected to be able to get away without paying him. He pulled his cell phone back out and dialed Abel Troy’s number.

  “Mr. Troy,” he began when the secretary had put him through, “there are four armed men at the warehouse you directed me to. As far as I can see they are waiting to eliminate me from the game. You have two options here. Either we take care of this amicably, in a public place tomorrow, or I kill all four of these men and then you and your brother. What do you say?”

  “I assure you, sir, there was no such operation planned. I will adjust the meeting place and contact you with the details tomorrow.”

  “Do not mistake satisfaction for complacency. If I feel my life is being threatened, there is not a volcano in New Zealand you could hide in that I could not find you.”

  “Threatening me on my continent is a very bad idea, Mr. Glasgow or should I say Mr. MacMaster? I do not suffer threats gladly, nor do I forget easily.”

  “I do not bother threatening anyone. Why would I? It is a waste of breath. I state the facts as I see them and follow through when necessary.”

  “There will be no need for follow through. Everything will go as planned and you can go back to Europe with your rewards.”

  The following day, outside the stadium, in the heart of a weekend soccer crowd, Henry Cuthbert personally handed Gordon an aluminum briefcase full of money. The crowd was moving into the arena, through the metal detectors. It made for a tightly packed crowd on the outside, not the kind of crowd one can move through easily. By the same token, not the kind of crowd that a man can open a briefcase full of liquid funds in.

  Gordon MacMaster swam against the tide like a spawning Atlantic salmon and emerged into the road. The automobile traffic was not moving as well as the pedestrians were.

  From the third floor balcony of the hotel across the street, a business suited Terry Kingston watched the transaction through the scope of a Remington. He did not keep the weapon trained on his erstwhile mentor, but on the head of his superior within the organization. If Henry had made a misstep, it would have been his last.

  Terry did not like the possibility of taking a target in a crowd this size. Even if it had been available in the time needed, the .50 caliber Barrett was out of the question. It was too unique and would have left too much collateral damage.

  The plan had been for MacMaster to join Kingston in the hotel room. Terry saw the man enter the hotel and relaxed. He lit a cigarette and sat back, away from the door. The door should have opened before he finished the cigarette, but it did not. Another 10 minutes went by and the door remained closed. Gordon had promised Terry a bonus but it was not this that motivated him. He had learned a lot from the Scotsman and wanted to contact him outside of the country. He suspected that the day would come when he would need to flee the country and it is always good to have friends in new places.

  Terry broke down his rifle and stored it in its suitcase. He took off his rubber gloves, put on driving gloves, made sure he had his key card for the room and slipped very quietly and carefully through the portal. The door closed quietly behind him and he moved to the end of the hall, feeling a little foolish and at the same time knowing he might never get out of the hotel if he wasn’t careful.

  The stairs were deserted, as hotel stairs usually are, and the lobby held only the staff. Gordon MacMaster had disappeared like a puff of smoke.

  Terry pulled his driving gloves tighter and considered his next move. The traffic was starting to move a bit freer now, as the crowd filtered into the stadium. There was a public rest room on the ground floor he realized, and entered it. There was no one else there. He went back into the lobby and out the front doors, making a show of lighting a cigarette while looking both ways down the street. There was no evidence of a large assassin or, indeed, of anything untoward. He stood there and smoked his cigarette, knowing he had been deserted and double-crossed and not caring much. What caused him the grief was not the money; it was the trust. He knew, or should have known, that there is no honor among thieves. He should have expected his mentor to disappear like this. There was one other course of action he could have taken but Terry did not think it was in the plan.

  By the time Terry finished his cigarette, he was thoroughly convinced that Gordon had headed for the airport or the docks. He shrugged his shoulders and walked back inside, taking the elevator to the third floor. Inside the room, there was a stack of money sitting on his suitcase. He could not believe he had been duped so easily. He actually laughed when he discovered how he had been misled.

  “God bless you, Gordon MacMaster. May you live a thousand years and breed a thousand sons.”

  ~~~

  Chapter Ten: Misgivings

  Uncle,

  It has been an intriguing and exciting few months. I was instrumental in the capture of the Irishman. He was captured post-mortem. I met and said goodbye to an extraordinary man with worldly acumen and microscopic insight. I was sorry to see him go and while I was unable to give him a proper send-off, he has my best wishes.

  I have been having some misgivings about my current activities. My resolve has not so much flagged as taken a back seat. I have come to understand the lure of the illicit lifestyle. I do not sympathize with the strata of society with which I have associated myself but I have come to understand them. I have found myself becoming more and more drawn to what I am doing. In short, I am becoming what I pledged to fight against. This realization has caused me incalculable grief and will require a catharsis of some sort, an exorcism.

  I have advanced my position due to my recent activities and expect to be engaged in more appropriate actions in the immediate future. I have nothing outlined regarding our previous plan. While it caused some damage, there was always another load right behind it, always another driver, always another gangster. Our activities were nothing but a bump in the road; an expensive bump but nothing more than annoying.

  I fear there is nothing I can truly do to stem the tide of corruption that invades this great land. I will continue to work behind the scenes at present but in the long run I may simply retire from this business and perhaps from society as well.

  Sincerely,

  Terry

  Ginger read the letter, amazed at the clarity and presentation. He could not help but wonder where Terry had gotten the style that the letter displayed. He could not take credit for it. The tone of the letter was something entirely different, however. A loss of faith in the innate goodness of man is the top of a long and painful slippery slope, the bottom of which is the loss of faith in one’s own goodness, and that is so often self-destructive. Many good men have fallen into the abyss while brooding on the shortcomings of mankind.

  Ginger wanted a drink very badly at this point. He actually wanted to get stinking blackout drunk. If he had a bottle of rum on hand, he would have downed it in short order and damn the consequences. Instead, he braced himself and fired up the truck, leaving the letter smoldering in the wood stove.

  The nearest pay phone was a good way off and Ginger never used that one. When he finally got through to his nephew, he asked if it was clear to talk. Once he was alone, Terry told his uncle about using a woman for his own purposes and discarding her. It stuck to him like nothing he had ever done before. He had no guilt over delivering drugs. That was part of his cover. There were very few men he regretted killing; they had needed what they got for the most part. He did not even feel bad about misleading his last mentor. He had great respect for Gordon but had still manipulated circumstances to fit his own needs. What was really bothering him, and he had not known it until he spoke with his uncle, was the fact that he would never be able to have an honest relationship with a woman. He did not know ho
w his father had pulled it off in the exact circumstances he found himself in. He had a loving wife and son, blind to his shadowed second life.

  Terry got furious when Ginger started laughing on the other end of the line. What kind of cold-blooded warrior gets all oatmeal mushy over a woman he pleased and pushed away? The line went dead quiet when Terry reminded Ginger that he had almost killed himself after his wife had passed away. A few moments of silence went by and then Ginger told his nephew to come home or get laid or jump into the damn river, but to stop pissing about like a schoolboy. Then he hung up. Terry began to wonder if he’d fallen in love with Linda Pierce and didn’t know it. He shook his head and went to the pub to get pissed.

  When Terry woke the following day, he could not remember how he had gotten back to his apartment or who he had spoken with. This bothered him in the extreme. He could have told anybody anything while he was completely blacked out. He could have done God knows what.

  He stood in front of his toilet with a tongue that tasted like fish guts in an ashtray and a headache that flared beyond the boundaries of his skull. He was trying to remember what had happened. He recalled being angry at Ginger and walking to the pub. He could see himself sitting at the bar and drinking some vile liquid of some sort and not caring what it tasted like. He checked his face in the mirror to see if he had been in a fight but there was no physical damage to his face. His knuckles were skinned and bruised but it looked more like he had fallen on concrete or punched a wall than hit anyone. He recited a drunkard’s prayer, “God, forgive me for whatever I did last night, I promise not to do it again.”

  He knew the only cure for a hangover was to get drunk again but his stomach felt like he had been drinking battery acid so he dismissed the idea and went back to bed.

  The phrase “In Vino Veritas” had never been brought to Terry’s attention but he had heard “Loose lips sink ships,” and he knew the best way to learn something short of torture was to get drunk with the holder of the secret. When he awoke, still feeling like he had been kicked in the stomach he decided that he had better curb his appetite for strong drink or he would end up dead. As drunk as he had been, he could have said anything to anyone. This led him to a further examination of his situation.