Dead Burn Page 5

  “Things change.”

  “Ah yes, don’t they? You see, I like to know who I’m dealing with.” He exhaled the cloud of smoke that meandered around his head and then dissipated.

  “Perfectly understandable. Do you have any more questions that I can answer?” Jordan stood up and slipped his laptop back into the leather briefcase, just as one of the shorter bodyguards with a permanent distasteful expression on his face took a step toward him.

  Jordan lifted his hands with some slight drama and said, “Nothing but boring paperwork in here.”

  Bishop took a step closer to him. His smile had faded, but the predatory look in his eyes remained focused and keenly aware of Jordan’s slight nervousness. “You’ve answered everything and more. Your fee for services has already been transferred into your account.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity and prompt payment. I wish every client was so diligent and gracious.” Jordan realized he was spreading it on a little too thick, but what was said had already left his mouth. No other client had ever paid his fees before he left the meeting before, now he genuinely wondered about this meeting and the motivation of Bishop. He chose initially to ignore it before because he had a job to do, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  A smile spread across Bishop’s face as he spoke, “No need to express thanks, it’s all about business… Jordan.”

  That little voice which kept Jordan alert in dangerous situations screamed at him now. There was more to Bishop’s business dealings than just security. “It certainly is…” Jordan made a move toward the front entrance as Bishop stepped abruptly in his path.

  “If I do have a question, I will call you. Or, perhaps one of your colleagues?” He watched Jordan closely.

  “Nope, it would just be me.” Jordan flashed his signature smile.

  “Are you sure? I thought there were a couple of other specialists you frequent with.”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Jordan flipped a business card onto the antique desk. “Feel free to contact me anytime. It’s been a pleasure.” He shook Bishop’s hand.

  Jordan eased his way to the foyer struggling to keep a calm and professional composure. He exited through the front door. He could still hear Bishop’s tone resonating in his head when he said Jordan and specialists. It actually thumped in his ears.

  He began to question this man. When he had searched the corporation “TSL, Inc.”, there was not anything listed, or any record of the man who easily transferred a substantial security fee into his account.

  Dummy Corporation? Phony front business? Mafia boss? A terrorist cell? All of these thoughts tumbled through Jordan’s mind faster than a speeding freight train. If he had to do a profile on what he had just witnessed, it would read more like a British spy novel and not about some enterprising executive.

  Relieved when he sat behind the wheel of his car again feeling the steady support of the leather seat behind him, and no bullets pierced through the back of his head. Jordan doubled checked his bank account from his phone, and indeed, the money was deposited.

  He took another second before he inserted the key into the ignition – the car hummed as usual, without any glitch or hesitation.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wednesday 0945 Hours

  As the elevator doors shut, a quiet numbness of the confined space made the assassin uncomfortable and conspicuous. A low buzz of the circulated air trickled to that of a leaking tire. The obscure security cameras remained nestled at two corners of the passenger car.

  No music played idly to pass the time.

  It remained disturbingly quiet.

  He knew they watched him.

  He kept a steady watch forward and could see his own distorted reflection from the steel exterior of the doors. A deranged killer came to mind from the out of focus features of the man staring back, known only to a select few as Red.

  Black jeans, black shirt, black boots, and a black leather jacket were his personal uniform of choice no matter what the temperature or occasion. As usual, his jacket looked too tight on his lean torso, and it gave the impression of someone who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin.

  Appearances were deceiving.

  The brief solitude gave him time to reflect on his own inner demons and the value of his work. Inside, he raged with violence and craved revenge – his kind of revenge. The previous rushed contract, still made him seethe, and he wanted to unleash the mayhem he felt to set things right in his eyes.

  The elevator ascended the floors with ease. The upward movement progressed in a floating motion that almost lulled Red into a false sense of security - almost.

  As he stood stationary, his fingers painfully curled into tight fists, one at a time, and on cue. The more he thought about how he had been manipulated into a situation that wasn’t his usual code of operation, the more unsettled his stomach became.

  His imagination kicked into high gear about all of the slow ways to kill a man. It wasn’t something that was out of his capability or code of ethics. Killing was a part of his daily routine, like eating, drinking, and paying the bills. How to kill a person was the more creative side of his profession.

  He remembered fondly the expression on the child rapist’s face as he left him in his pornography lair, never again to watch his aberrant videos. Vacant, dumbfounded, and even surprised was among his last emotions on earth before his brains obliterated into tiny pieces, only for the coroner and crime scene techs to scrape up.

  A pleasant bell chimed as the elevator prepared for the thirty-ninth floor. The doors slowly opened.

  Red crossed the threshold seconds before the elevator doors shut. His boots compressed the plush burgundy carpet, slightly slowing his gait. Walking down the long hallway with several wooden doors, the assassin never averted his attention from the large, double doors at the end.

  No identification, letters, or numbers were on any of the doors, but it was clear that the point of interest were the heavy metal doors. An electronic noise above his head moved and focused the camera directly on Red’s face. A few moments passed before the lock disengaged and the killer entered.

  The heavy door closed automatically and secured the triple titanium locks.

  It smelled of freshly cleaned carpets with a pungent pine and lavender scent, which made Red’s stomach take a jolted sour turn. A barely palatable taste entered his mouth and he swallowed several times to keep it at bay.

  Another long hallway welcomed him with two rows of offices on each side. A few of the room’s windows had bulletproof glass, along with sparse, monochromatic desks, chairs, sofas, and tables. A middle-aged woman in a dark suit sat at a desk typing on a laptop computer, she never acknowledged Red, even if she saw him.

  There were still no identifying names or numbers of any kind. There wasn’t a pleasant receptionist to guide you where you needed to go, or to inform someone you had an appointment.

  The air conditioner was on full force because Red could feel his right shoulder and left knee complain with a dull stiffness from the drastic drop in temperature. The cooler temperature kept minds sharper and more efficient to carry out the duties of the GATE.

  Every few months, sometimes six months to a year, Red reported to his boss. Most assassins did not have any direct contact with their so-called bosses. GATE was different, more hands on, and more lethal than any other contract government agency. GATE was an abbreviation for Government Anti-Terrorist Enforcement. It wasn’t as candy coated as it sounded. GATE worked on its own agenda, for its own reasons, and was headed up by a ruthless director known as Mr. Bishop.

  Red stood in front of a stainless steel wall and waited. His internal impulses competed for something different from his cool, aloof demeanor. Finally, the wall slid open and revealed a huge room filled with computers systems.

  Several nondescript employees diligently worked with high-tech searches and background assignments. Other staff members listened to phone conversations of taped intermissions of cell phones from persons of i
nterest. Every word spoken, carefully coded and cross-referenced, and then entered into an even larger database that created more lists of suspects.

  No one looked at Red as he entered the control room. The assassin looked oddly out of place in contrast to the office employees in starched white shirts and blue or grey suits.

  The low buzz of the electrical devices and state of the art technology made Red feel like he would undergo some type of radiation treatment. He wondered if his chances of contracting cancer were even higher now.

  A short, heavyset man with sagging jowls and droopy eyes approached Red. “This way.” He led Red into another office.

  Once away from the hum of computers and florescent lighting, the only sound was Red’s leather jacket that made a rhythmic squeak as he crossed the threshold into a much more modern office. All of the plush amenities and furnishings were that of a wealthy stockbroker, instead of the head of a covert, contract agency.

  “Would you care for anything?” The pudgy man asked Red, but clearly wasn’t interested in what he had to say.

  “No.”

  The man left.

  Red looked around the room, nothing had changed much since his last visit eight months ago. The heavy antique desks, credenza, and filing cabinets were typical of most offices. It was the extent of the lavish fixtures, computers, overhead projector, and crystal decanters filled with expensive scotch and brandy that made the office seem oddly out of place.

  The dark brown leather chairs were imported and most likely handmade by someone in a small village in Italy. Red chose not to sit down in one of the comfortable chairs, it made him feel more secure if he stood.

  “Nice to see you Red. I trust you are well.” Bishop said.

  “Fine.” Red replied sourly.

  Bishop walked to the opposite side of the room and took a seat behind the desk. He looked like he was navigating the helm on a star ship cruiser. His hands moved in the smooth, quick manner of a politician before he spoke again, “It’s nice to know that you can improvise when necessary.” A smile settled on his face as he waited for Red to respond.

  “I thought I had made myself clear.” Red flatly stated.

  “Sometimes things just work out that way.”

  “Not for me.”

  Bishop leaned back in his chair. “Please have a seat, relax.”

  “I’ll stand.”

  “Very well. I appreciate your work ethics and exemplary record, and now I have a different assignment for you.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your usual fee will be doubled, plus a generous bonus of the extra time you spend.” Bishop paused as he studied the hit man.

  Red thought about grabbing Bishop’s throat, if he would struggle, and how long it would actually take him to die.

  “You seem troubled.”

  “I don’t like changes.” Red grunted.

  “I understand your position, but times change, people change, and often plans change. It’s a fact of life.” The steely eyes of the director rested on Red’s arthritic hand. “It’s my job to make sure that the right people are doing the right job. You see, I had to make sure that you were still sharp, and in top shape when unsuspecting events arise.”

  “Like what?” Red clenched his jaw as his breath became somewhat stilted.

  “Don’t worry, you’re still the best contract man in the biz. This assignment is for someone of your, let us just say, experience.” He watched Red’s reaction.

  “Who’s the mark?”

  “This time I need for you to run an op.”

  “I don’t work with anyone.”

  “This is a babysitting job, just until we get what we need from the person of interest. A simple job and good money.”

  Red sighed. He hated everything about the thought of running an operation with others, they were usually inexperienced, trigger happy clowns. There were too many variables to consider, and too many things that could, and most likely would, go wrong with an op.

  A moment passed before Red spoke. “What do you need from me?”

  “Excellent.” Bishop pulled open a drawer and retrieved a thick, dark manila envelope. He tossed it across the desktop. “Everything you need is inside. I trust you won’t have any questions.”

  Red took a step forward and picked up the packet. It was unusual to get anything on paper. “Fine.” He turned to leave.

  “You can take your time to get everything just like you like it before you proceed. I’ll leave it up to your discretion.” Bishop smiled. He was a snake in civilian clothes. “Make sure you destroy everything after you’ve completed the job.”

  Red left the office and retraced his steps back to the elevator. He hated the administrative aspect of his job. He wanted to do his work – alone and uninterrupted.

  As he waited for the elevator to drop him back at the basement level, he opened the one-inch thick envelope, and slid out the top photograph of his mark along with a zip file. The photo was a beautiful blond woman running at the beach. The image was grainy due to the telephoto lens of the camera, but her face was clear enough to identify. Killing a woman was not a problem for Red, but there was something about the particular woman that troubled him.

  He quickly skimmed the remaining photographs, explicit instructions, in-depth background, addresses and contacts before he tucked the packet into his jacket. The anger he felt inside about Bishop was about to explode, but he would soon direct this rage at his new assignment – Emily Stone.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Wednesday 2210 Hours

  The old building remained intact from the front view. The back area had a burned out portion that left a complete cavernous opening, which gaped profusely and left a deep impression. Even though the structure was in the middle of the city, it was quiet on the street, without any voices or passing cars encroaching into the midnight hour.

  The chain link fence, haphazardly dismantled, from the trampling of the fire personnel, waited ominously. The emergency group had moved quickly, from the street side to the old building, in a rushed effort to extinguish the blazing fire.

  Of course, they were too late.

  Water had drenched the empty adjoining property, which left a muddy trail and standing pools of sludge. Twisted wire let go from the top and sides of each fence section. There remained sharp hooked snares for anyone who entered, and a twisting gauntlet path to the back entrance of the building.

  Tattered crime scene tape fluttered in the wind and caught up in muddy clumps between the scattered garbage. Several paper coffee cups arranged next to the building in a neat pile, were obviously overlooked by law enforcement’s cleanup crews.

  A flashlight beam led the way for Emily and Rick to navigate the sloppy pathway to the point of interest.

  Emily took the point position when it came to studying a crime scene. Even though emergency personnel from the fire department, patrol officers, a fire inspector, several police detectives, crime scene technicians, bosses in charge, and any curious onlooker had bombarded this particular crime scene, it still had important clues that waited for discovery.

  Emily trudged through the muck and garbage, but scrutinized everything in her path from impressions made from equipment and footprints, to tossed garbage, and all various access routes. She estimated two to three dozen sets of work boots, and two or three sets of casual shoes, most likely from the public.

  Rick remained quiet and gave Emily space to evaluate the scene.

  Standing at the back door entrance and turning slowly in a three-sixty degree turn, Emily studied the area. Her eyes moved slowly and took a mental inventory of everything around her. It seemed strange to her that there was a heavy fireproof steel door. It appeared newly installed and stood out unscathed against the building skeleton.

  “Who do you think installed this door?” Emily asked as she took a closer look.

  Rick must have been thinking along the same lines. “This isn’t your normal heavy back door… it’s fireproof and would cost some
serious bucks.”

  “Not to mention the installation cost. There must be a record of purchase and installation.”

  Emily handed the flashlight to Rick. She took photographs of the door, building, and the various accesses that someone would have to gain entry to the back door and to the property. Keeping the digital camera level, she panned around so that she could connect the photos in a real view of the crime scene when she got back to her computer. It gave the investigation a flowing interpretation to study, and often many times new clues emerged from this simple reenactment technique. She continued to follow the protocol at low, as well as, higher angles.

  Emily softly spoke as she studied the surroundings. “I know that this isn’t the normal serial case we investigate, but this killer is targeting very specific victims and then somehow leading them to a place where they are then killed.” Her voice trailed off before she continued. “These victims don’t necessarily lead a perfect life.”

  “What do you mean? Well, I know this guy was a criminal lawyer and was able to get judges to acquit rapists and child molesters.”

  “I think,” Emily explained, “He has an agenda… we need to figure out what that is…”

  “All the arson cases I’ve seen and investigated had to do with revenge, insurance scams, teenage nonsense, or covering up another crime.”

  “This guy isn’t the usual arsonist. He’s complicated.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Rick poked fun to lighten the mood.

  Emily smiled. She loved to watch Rick’s face light up when he was more relaxed. “You know what I mean. The usual profile is a single, white male, teens to twenties, low education, antisocial tendencies, anger retaliatory, and they’re usually against some type of societal norms.”

  Emily eyed a fence post and an electrical box adjacent to the ally wall. “This guy is the exact opposite of the usual profile, and extremely efficient, almost to the point of … obsessive compulsive … psychopathic...”

  “Great, we’re looking for an anal, psycho intelligent guy who could be a member of Mensa.”