by Roger Weston
“What was the license?”
The man didn’t answer.
“The license plate!” Chuck said. “Tell me what it was.”
The man looked up from his phone. “AEI 961.”
Chuck took a deep breath. That was the license of his car, and it was also the same color, make and model.
“I’ll get help,” Chuck said and ran back to the pipes that concealed Lydia and her father. He stopped and looked around. They were gone.
Chuck ran into the old factory building and saw no sign of them. He exited out the back of the factory and got an obscured view of them walking along the sidewalk beyond the ivy-covered fence.
A van screeched to a halt. A door opened. A shuffle of feet on the sidewalk. A gunshot. A cry of horror. A door slammed, and tires chirped as the van sped away.
Chuck sprinted across the pipe yard and tore through the opening in the chain-link fence.
Aung Ying lay on the sidewalk. Lydia was gone.
Chuck kneeled down by his friend. Blood from a chest-wound spread across his shirt.
Chuck grabbed his hand. “Hold on, my friend.”
Aung pulled his hand away with amazing strength for a man who had just been shot. “Get away from me. You liar. We would’ve been better off if we’d never met you.”
Chuck’s head dropped to his chest. Sirens blared and he felt Aung’s hand go limp in his. “I’ll find her. I promise. I will find her and keep her safe.” He let go of Aung’s lifeless hand and stood up.
The police would be looking for him. His car had been used to run over the assassin. Chuck sprinted toward the apartments. He ran half a mile down back alleys before he slowed to a walk and came out on the main sidewalk in front of a small grocery store. Three cop cars screeched around the corner and raced in his direction.
CHAPTER 3
Seattle, Washington
Robert Fielding had been in this game for a long time, and every year it got more interesting for him. There were always new players, and when they had served their purpose, he retired them and brought in fresh blood. The latest crop of talent was the best he’d seen. Leslie, the shrink, was an unqualified genius. She was manipulating people with great efficiency. She was stoking Robert’s fires with her unconventional methods, and the results in the field were impressive.
Robert checked to be sure the knot on his tie was correct and taut. He ran his newly-filed nails through his white eyebrows.
He eyed his watch, then sat down and gazed out the window of his 20th floor office suite. It was a sunny morning in downtown Seattle. The water in Elliott Bay rippled under a light wind. Robert sipped his iced tonic water and watched the crowds milling in and out of the ferry terminal below.
An immaculately-dressed brunette strode in, clicking the door shut behind her. Leslie’s short hair and black-rimmed glasses made her a carbon copy of another lady on the 9th floor—although Leslie’s legs were longer. Robert admired her knees, amply revealed under her mini-skirt. He smiled into her nervous, cold eyes. Her bearing really didn’t fit the mold for her profession—except that she worked for RUMAN and not private practice. He had endured three sessions with her and had never been able to relax. Nevertheless, she could dissect a mind with cold precision. Her high heels clicked sharply on the floor, and she didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down across the desk, snapping her file onto the polished teak. The file was marked classified.
“What happened at the pipe yard in Birmingham?” Leslie said.
“We used your psych ops techniques to increase the sense of chaos in Chuck’s life. We hit him hard.”
“I didn’t agree to this. Exactly what did you do?”
“We messed with him completely.”
Leslie shook her head in disgust. “Why wasn’t I consulted? He’s my patient, isn’t he?”
“Relax, Leslie.”
She sighed. “I know what I’m talking about.”
“We got very interesting results,” Robert said. “There’s no question his tension level was elevated. Overall, I would call the test a success.”
“How did you monitor results?”
“Audio and video. We did voice and movement analysis with trained observers, and of course we compounded the stress-event sequence. Your methods are working beautifully.”
“What was his stress quotient?”
“Seven point nine.”
Leslie went rigid.
“That’s high,” Robert said.
“We see higher scores all the time.”
“It’s still high.”
“Not for a man who just survived an assassination attempt, watched his friend get shot and his girlfriend kidnapped.”
“It’s definitely high, Leslie.”
“Oh, really? Well, it’s below bifurcation and you can’t sustain that level without escalation. You have to keep the pressure on until he’s pushed out of equilibrium and into a state of mental and emotional chaos. You can’t stop now.”
“We will escalate. You can be sure of that. His tests are going to get harder. And next time we won’t come to his rescue.”
“Who’s gonna come to your rescue, Robert? And mine? Brandt was the world’s foremost assassin—and you’re using him as a lab animal. Not a smart move in my book.”
Robert waved her off dismissively. “We’re playing a game here—a game we always win with a deck that’s heavily stacked in our favor. A game we won’t lose.”
Leslie’s face darkened. “We need to stay focused. Psych ops and chaos infusion have their place, but this isn’t it. You don’t use it on a man as dangerous as Chuck Brandt.”
“I can handle Chuck.”
“He’s dangerous, Robert. It’s one thing to mess around with non-suspecting immigrants. Chuck Brandt is a different animal. I resent that my client confidentiality was exploited to this extreme. I never agreed to let it go this far. Once he puts it all together, he’ll be looking straight at me.”
Robert removed a strand of hair from the arm of his suit jacket. “I’ve got the situation under control. He’d be dead right now if we hadn’t taken out the hit man.”
“You should have let the killer do his job.”
“Not until we’ve got more data on Brandt’s stress responses and reactions. This is a unique opportunity. We’re breaking down walls. Just think what we can do with this kind of information—the opportunities in the field this could create. Nobody could touch us. Don’t worry. Curtis will get to him eventually. In the meantime, I intend to learn a lot from Chuck.”
“Your curiosity is a deathtrap, Robert. We’ve been passive for too long, just waiting for Curtis to come after Brandt. It’s time to get active. I’m going to leak misinformation that Brandt has a contract on Curtis. That will force Curtis to eliminate him.”
“Are you sick?” Robert leaned forward and laid his hands on the desk.
Leslie smiled. “Chuck will be irresistible bait to Curtis. He’ll have two reasons to take him down now.”
“No, Leslie. I want more time to study Brandt’s reactions as we turn up the heat. I plan to keep hitting him harder until he is completely psyched out to the max. Chaos will become his reality. When we push Brandt to the edge, nobody can calculate how much we’ll learn about bifurcation. If we can make his life hell and use his stress level to manipulate him, then we can accomplish anything and control anybody.”
“You’ve misjudged this situation.”
“I haven’t misjudged anything. I have another team on the ground, and they’re about to increase the pressure.”
CHAPTER 4
Birmingham, Alabama
With three cop cars racing down the street in his direction, Chuck ducked into the market. He picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it. Casually glancing out the window, he watched as two of the cop cars roared past. He was about to put the paper down when the third cruiser pulled into the parking lot. Chuck resisted the urge to stare or react in any way. He kept his gaze on the newspaper, but out of the corner
of his eye noticed the cop get out and stand by his car door as if waiting for backup. Oddly, the cop hadn’t looked toward the store, and Chuck realized that he wouldn’t be standing out in the open if he thought an armed fugitive was inside. Two middle-aged white men entered the store and headed for the wine section. Chuck eyed the men for half a moment and then looked back at the cop, who got into his car and took off down the street.
Chuck walked through the produce section toward the back door. He saw one of the two men examining a potato—a little too carefully. He didn’t have a shopping basket or a cart. Chuck wandered out of the produce section and down an aisle, using all his discipline to walk casually.
His mind raced across the bank of photos he kept at his safe house. A hundred faces and features flashed through his mind. Spies, terrorists, hit men. But none matched the man.
Chuck turned down the next row, heading for the back door again when he saw the other white guy walk past the end of his aisle. The man stopped for a second. Chuck pretended to examine a can of beans. These shoppers were either amateurs or assassins. He doubted they would have sent amateurs after him.
Chuck turned and followed the man. The guy noticed him and reached for a box of cereal. Chuck walked up to him. “‘Scuse me, sir,” he said. “You seem like a careful shopper. Are these a good brand of beans?” Chuck hammered the can against the assassin’s head. The man grunted and fell. He reached under his sports jacket, but Chuck flew at him and whacked his head again, denting the can.
A woman walked around the corner and froze. “Oh, Lord.” She went for her phone and started dialing. Chuck drew a Glock handgun from the shoulder leather under the man’s jacket. He heard the lady with the cell phone gasp in fear. She darted out of sight.
Chuck lifted the man’s wallet and started down the aisle toward the front of the store.
A moment later, he heard the lady shout, “The white man’s got a gun.”
At the end of the aisle, Chuck smiled at one of the male cashiers, but it must have been a strained, unnatural grin. The man sprinted out the front door.
“Get out,” Chuck shouted. “Everybody!” He was tempted to go out with them, to try and blend in with the crowd. Problem with that was protocol would demand at least one more assassin would be waiting in the parking lot to pick him off the moment he stepped out the front door.
“Come on, pal,” he mumbled. “What are ya doin’?”
Chuck walked toward the wine section. He started to look over his shoulder when he saw a quick movement. From behind a shelf, Potato man opened fire on him. Two shots hit him in the chest, lodging in his flak jacket and flooding him with excruciating pain. Chuck dropped and rolled. His gun roared, forcing the killer to pull back.
Chuck rose and walked toward the assassin, firing into the jugs of wine. Bottles exploded. Glass and liquid rained on the floor. Chuck heard the man grunt in shock and saw him smack down on the linoleum.
As Chuck ran for the back of the store, he brushed his fingers across his flak jacket to feel where the slugs had hit. Applying pressure to the vest at the point of impact, he grunted in pain. It felt like his ribs were cracked, and if not, he knew he would at best have some nasty bruising. In the store room, he found the employee’s exit door, cracked it open, and looked for a trap. Gun at the ready, he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Chuck shoved the gun under his belt and hurried around into the alley behind the store. Just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, he saw the driver in a white van sit up. Was it the same van that grabbed Lydia?
The wheels screeched. The van raced towards him. Chuck drew his Colt .45 and squeezed off a shot. A hole appeared in the windshield. The van swerved and crashed into the dumpster. The roar of the engine faded, and only its purr filled the alley. Chuck ran up, jerked the door open and pistol-whipped the getaway driver, who’d taken a bullet in the shoulder. The man sunk down onto the passenger seat.
Chuck shoved him onto the floor and looked in the back of the van. Lydia wasn’t there.
He yanked the man’s hair, pulling his head back, and then removed his wallet. The driver’s license tagged him as Darren Zinn. Of course, it was fake, but Chuck pocketed his ID, credit card, and $72 in cash. He dragged the man to the back of the van.
Chuck drove through the neighborhood. Most of the houses were run down, but a few showed meticulous pride of ownership with mowed lawns and blooming flowers. Chuck passed a smiling young mother who was pushing along her beautiful brown baby in a stroller. He passed two people talking over a mailbox.
Life was going on as usual for most people, but Chuck’s world was falling apart. And Zinn there on the floor of the van was part of the reason.
His mind kept flashing back and forth between Lydia and Zinn. One was the victim and the other the criminal. Justice was required, but Chuck wanted to get away from all of that. He was tired of dispensing justice. That’s why he was in Birmingham—to make up for the past and live in the present. He was trying to change his ways, but was failing. He didn’t want any more people to suffer because of him. If he suffered, that was one thing. Hell, he was ready to suffer as his penance. That felt right to him. But for others to suffer as a result of his actions was not okay.
He heard Zinn moan under the duct tape that covered his mouth and cheeks.
Chuck glanced at a bell tower as he drove past a church. He desperately wanted to be a peaceful man, but what was he to do? Was he supposed to forget about Lydia and wish her well? Was that his path to personal redemption for his dark past? No, he wouldn’t abandon Lydia to evil. Someone had to take action against those who were determined to kill and destroy. He would find Lydia like he promised Aung Ying.
Thirty minutes north of Birmingham, Chuck pulled the van onto an abandoned country road. He drove under a thick canopy of trees for a while, finally pulling over to the side.
Zinn moaned and started to struggle against the duct tape on his wrists.
Chuck got out of the van. The sweet smell of rich green foliage filled the woods. He stood under the canopy thinking of what had to be done. On any other day he’d have loved to take a walk deep into the woods to enjoy the peace and tranquility. He got back into the van and tore the duct tape off Zinn’s face.
Zinn was wide awake now. “What are you gonna do?” He sat up and leaned against the inside wall of the van. “What the hell are you gonna do?”
“You know it’ll be bad, don’t you?” Chuck said.
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Where’s the girl?”
“The hell you talking about?”
Chuck punched him, hammering the gunshot wound in Zinn’s shoulder.
An unbroken stream of profanity spewed out of Zinn’s lips.
“The girl.” Chuck spoke quietly, almost a whisper.
“I’m losing too much blood, man.”
“Where is she?” Chuck held his Colt .45 to Zinn’s forehead. “Last chance.”
“I don’t know. We passed her off. I don’t even know who they were.”
“I believe you,” Chuck said. “I can tell you’re giving it to me straight.”
“You’re damn right I am. Now help me.” Zinn winced from pain. “Get me something to stop the bleeding.”
“Sure,” Chuck said. He removed the grey carpet that lined the spare tire well.
“Come on, man. I need something to stop the bleeding.”
Chuck lifted the spare tire from its well and yanked the L-shaped lug wrench free from its hold. “This should do.” He put the sharp end of the wrench into Zinn’s shoulder wound. Zinn twisted and rolled, but Chuck hit the bull’s-eye when the wrench scraped against bone. Zinn wailed in pain.
“Where is she?” Chuck said. He plunged the tool back into the assassin’s shoulder, wrenching it hard into the joint.
Lying on his back with tears streaming down his face Zinn said, “Okay, I’ll tell you.” Then he hesitated.
Chuck lifted the lug wrench.
Zinn yelled. “They took her to Jin
Mountain.”
“Where’s Jin Mountain?”
“I don’t know.”
Chuck jammed the lug wrench back into his shoulder. He cringed at the sound of Zinn’s scream.
The man’s face contorted. “I don’t know.” His body went limp and he mumbled, “But I know someone who does.”
“Tell me.” Chuck held the wrench like a club.
Zinn sighed and closed his eyes. “Angela Lane. She’s my ex. Lives in Port Ludlow, Washington.”
Chuck processed that for a moment. “Keep going.”
“She went to Jin Mountain on a classified job with a scientist named Bruce Foley, something about satellites. That’s all I know.” Zinn opened his eyes and looked at Chuck.
“I don’t think so.” Chuck lowered the bloody end of the lug wrench. “I’m taking your shoulder apart—all the way apart.”
“No…no! I’m telling the truth, you sick bastard.”
“Who sent you?”
Zinn was fading from blood loss, his eyes closed again.
Chuck shook him. “Who hired you?”
“RUMAN.” Zinn took a long deep breath and mumbled, “Your problems….have just…begun.”
CHAPTER 5
Kalorama House, Washington D.C.
Earl Brown grew up four miles south of downtown Los Angeles. He came from a poor family and learned early on what it meant to miss a meal and how to compensate. Despite his 4.0 grade point average in high school, an Army recruiter rejected him due to his poor eye sight, obesity, and back pain. Earl had walked out of the recruiter’s office feeling thirty pounds lighter and realized that he’d never wanted to go into the service to begin with. What had he been thinking? Those people would have expected him to exercise and work up a sweat and run and eat MRI’s in the desert where there were no restaurants in sight. Years later, he’d sent the recruiter a thank you letter and a gift card to See’s Candy.
After failing to qualify for the military, he’d secured student loans and gone to community college where he owned the Dean’s List every term. At USC he got a full academic scholarship and collected so many congratulatory letters from the school president that he eventually took to using them as place mats on his kitchen table. He graduated with honors in political science and got a Masters and went to work as a page in the U.S. Senate. He took no offense at this humble beginning and actually thrived there.
