by Bill Brewer
Watching all this with Peotor at first shocked Diegert, then intrigued him, and finally numbed him as the bloody images became routine and the videos that were just simple shaky shots of dead bodies were no longer entertaining compared to the more complex depictions of the entire process. Diegert, though, was amazed by the money; the going rate was about a hundred thousand dollars USD for a human life. In addition to the assassins’ postings, there were several pages of contracts to kill being advertised.
“One day, you will see my page on the darknet, and I’ll be the most sought-after assassin in the world.” Peotor’s boastful statement did nothing to impress Diegert, but what he said next was more chilling.
“An assassin must commit to the kill. When the pistol is pointed, the trigger must be pulled, and then the assassin must walk away.” Diegert’s doubt of Peotor’s capacity to kill was weakened by his lethal pronouncement. The big guy continued, “I can do this. I can shut my emotions down in order to become as cold as Sam. He has four kills, you know.”
“Yeah…he showed me his tattoo.”
After a rapid flurry of keystrokes, Peotor brought up a screen to show Diegert.
“Look at his website; you can see his kills.”
On the computer, Diegert saw four grisly posthumous portraits, all with entrance wounds in the forehead.
“One day I will have many more tattoos than that guy,” said Peotor as he gestured upstairs to an unconvinced Diegert.
“Then why are you just sitting here babysitting me?”
“Babysitting? There are no babies here. What do you mean?”
“What are you waiting for? There are contracts right here with all the information you need to carry them out. Why aren’t you doing one of these jobs?” asked Diegert as he tapped his fingers on Peotor’s screen.
Peotor’s round face turned to Diegert. “I need to lose weight, and I need to get my knee fixed.” Peotor slapped his right knee. “I hurt it playing rugby, and I need surgery to fix the ligaments. I can’t run on it. Hey, since you killed the Mexican, we can use him to set up your profile.”
“No way, I don’t want a profile.”
Later, for dinner, Sam cooked himself up a soup with sausage, noodles, lard, and butter. It looked to Diegert like a liquid heart attack with several different layers of fat fighting to remain separate from the broth. Peotor stared enviously at the fatty meal while he peeled back the foil on his cup of lite yogurt. Diegert finished fixing a turkey sandwich, but before he bit into it, he asked Sam, “Can I use your phone to call Buscetti?”
Sam’s gaze snapped at Diegert, and he instinctively snatched his phone off the counter. “No, you can’t.”
“When am I going to get to speak with Buscetti and get out of here?”
Sam replied, “According to Mr. Dimitrov, you’re to stay here. He specifically said you aren’t to leave.”
An unnerving chill trickled down Diegert’s spine as Sam’s revelation of who was in charge registered within him.
“You’re to remain as our guest,” said Peotor, the smiling bear.
“I appreciate the hospitality, but I would like to move on and get back to my life.”
“Your life,” said Sam coldly, “is safer here than out on the street. You will remain until I hear from Dimitrov.”
Peotor added, with a smile that included yogurt at the corner of his beard, “I’m glad you’re staying here with us.”
Diegert wondered if Peotor was really as dumb as he looked, but he felt the cold from Sam’s icy stare and realized his predicament might have far more dire consequences than he’d initially thought.
On day four, Peotor asked Diegert to fire up the laptop, telling him the password was “RUSSIA.” When Diegert signed in, the screen immediately opened to a site displaying gay porn.
Diegert sensed Peotor’s bulky body coming up behind him.
“Hey, let’s watch some of this…together.”
The scene on the screen of one man fellating another turned Diegert’s stomach, but it turned Peotor on.
“No, that’s not my thing,” Diegert said as he stood up, handed Peotor the computer, and moved to the other side of the room.
“Come on, I thought you’d like it.”
“You thought I was gay?”
“What’s wrong with being gay?”
“Look, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it, but I’m not gay. I don’t want to watch gay porn.”
“What…you’re too good for gay sex?”
“No, man, I’m just not interested.”
Peotor’s face became a hard scowl as he turned his attention to the screen, watching the porn with the sound up high. Diegert distracted himself with a magazine, but it was like trying to find peace and quiet at a Dionysus orgy. As Peotor’s excitement intensified, he undid his pants and pulled out his erection. “I want your wet lips on my cock. Get over here,” he commanded in an authoritarian tone Diegert had not heard him use before.
The Russian reached to his right, taking his Makarov 9 mm pistol off the table and pointing it at Diegert. The incredulous American got up and walked over to the couch.
“That’s right, kneel down and suck it.” With the gun in his hand, Peotor proclaimed, “Power and pleasure.”
On one knee in front of the big guy, Diegert encircled the man’s cock with his fingers and gently stroked it up and down. Loving the pleasure, Peotor leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The instant the big guy’s lids fell, Diegert crushed the erection in his grasp and grabbed the gun from the stunned man’s hand. Peotor’s painful holler alerted Sam, who bounded down the stairs into the living room. Keeping the squeeze on the big guy’s dick, Diegert pivoted and put two bullets into the skinnier guard as he entered the room. Letting go of the guy’s prick, Diegert plunged his knee into the bellowing man’s crotch. Diegert pulled Peotor’s head back by the hair and put the barrel in his face. He pulled the trigger, shattering Peotor’s cranium, splattering the carpet with blood and brains.
10
With two dead bodies and a bloody mess in the Russian safe house, Diegert was stunned at what he’d just done. Shooting two men so quickly left him gasping for breath. The adrenaline rush was like none he’d ever felt, and he was afraid he was going into cardiac arrest. With his heart bashing against his sternum, he stepped back and fell into a chair on the opposite side of the room. He sat there realizing his life would never be the same. The eerie quiet was unsettling, but it was broken by the sound of blood dripping to the floor from Peotor’s head. Being trapped, not communicating, and worrying that he’d be killed by these mobsters, Diegert had reacted with a survival reflex.
The sound of thumping and dragging drew him into the kitchen. Sam had two bullet holes in his chest and was sucking air through pursed lips as he reached back with his elbows to pull himself across the floor. The blood exiting the wounds in his back smeared across the floor as he struggled to make his way toward the stairs. Diegert stood by the granite-topped island looking at the pitiful four-time assassin as he desperately sought to escape.
When their eyes met, Diegert saw the fear and felt a jolt of power he hadn’t expected. This man, who had struck Diegert as so cold and ruthless, now had fear radiating from his face. This man, who had killed several others, now displayed the weakness and desperation of wounded quarry about to be killed. The powerlessness and the abandonment of hope for mercy played across Sam’s face and filled the vector between his and Diegert’s eyes. Diegert felt triumph. He felt like he did after beating Miguel Lopez in the alley, but this sensation was even more powerful and primal.
This man was going to die, and Diegert was going to look him in the eye as he shoved aside his humanity to end Sam’s pathetic little life with explosive violence. Sam’s eyes widened until his irises were ringed by the bright-white sclera as Diegert raised the pistol, squaring the sight bead on the point between the eyes where the nose began.
Sam stopped shuffling and pleaded, “Please don’t.” The bu
llet imploded the nasal and frontal bones producing an immediate splash that spread across the hardwood floor when the back of Sam’s skull was pulverized by the force of the close-range projectile. Diegert did not flinch after firing the weapon. He gazed upon the dead man while the anger and frustration of his being a captive mixed with the sudden liberation he felt now that there was no one to hold him hostage. The feeling was more than that, though. The capacity to inflict death by his will and hand heated his blood, engorging his muscles with an animalistic sense of power. The adrenaline was huge, and Diegert felt so alive and energized for having shot these men to gain his freedom.
If Diegert were to become an assassin, then a killer he would be. The abuse he had endured from his father and the servitude of his lousy old job as well as the disappointment of his service in the Army all left him feeling weak, lost, and rudderless. In contrast, here now was something that made him feel powerful, in control, and free of himself.
In the Army, he was trained as a soldier to kill enemies for the sake of the mission as well as to protect his fellow soldiers. He had done that today. His willingness to cross the line, to become the killer, grabbed his thoughts and expanded his sense of self with an unexpected realization. He enjoyed the kill. This moment, this internal experience, extended from his head to his muscles to his soul, filling him with an unprecedented sense of personal power.
After washing the blood off his face and hands, he gathered up useful things: guns, ammo, some cash, car keys, his phone, as well as his Ojibwa knife. He was wearing his amulet while he looked at the blanket his mother had made him. Using the knife, he cut out the embroidered prayer folded it up and stuck it in his pocket. From Peotor’s computer, he downloaded the Tor software and verified that he could access the darknet on his phone. Exiting the back door, he came around where the cars were parked and drove away in a big black BMW 738i.
A stolen Bratva vehicle would quickly become a liability. Diegert found refuge on the interior of the third floor of a downtown parking garage. He accessed the darknet and read through a number of contract offerings for assassinations. He figured he was accused of one murder he didn’t commit, and now was guilty of taking two lives, so if convicted he was going to jail for life or a spot on death row. He reluctantly realized that the best thing to do was go all in. It was scary and messy, but he admitted to himself that he felt charged by the power of the experience. Shooting those two guys had left him with a strangely liberating sense of relief. This was a feeling he would never admit to anyone, but he couldn’t deny to himself. His emotions were raw, confusing, and powerful.
Out of all the advertisements he reviewed, he was attracted to one that was a two-part job. A successful hit in Miami got you a private jet out of the US to perform a second job in Paris. This seemed like just what Diegert needed, the money was good, a hundred thousand dollars, but the flight was more important. If he could escape the US, he would be able to establish himself in Europe and remain free and unpursued.
His reply to the ad went secretly to the computer of Aaron Blevinsky. Blevinsky was employed as a special operations manager for an elite group known as Crepusculous. All of Blevinsky’s communication was sent blindly. No one knew the real identity of the person with whom they were communicating when that person worked for Crepusculous.
This elite organization, comprised of four men, represented the smallest percent of the world’s wealthiest people. Their combined wealth encompassed 75 percent of the world’s resources. Their ability to influence governments, markets, and the global economy made them the most powerful people on earth. All four of the men were practically unknown in the media, largely because they owned most of the media outlets in the world and made sure that tawdry gossip and investigative news stories were focused on the few competitors they had. Crepusculous meant “in the shadows,” and from their clandestine positions, these men controlled the world.
As director of special operations, Blevinsky was tasked with ensuring that Crepusculous had a private military. From battle-hardened commandos to stealthy assassins, Blevinsky kept ready a group of men and women who could carry out missions deemed necessary by the four Board members of Crepusculous.
With the ad that attracted Diegert, Blevinsky was fishing for a fresh operator, someone young yet confident and ready to prove himself. A prospect for the future who had very little past and could be groomed for a special mission he was planning for the Board.
Blevinsky read Diegert’s message, which was sent under the online ID, Next Chance: I’m interested in the opportunity you’re advertising.
He replied under the online ID, Darkmass: What experience do you have?
Next Chance: I have three recent completions against narcotic organizations.
Darkmass: Were there complications from law enforcement?
Blevinsky’s questions kept Diegert on the line, which was essential for the success of a reverse tracking worm designed in a Crepusculous tech lab that was able to move through Tor and identify the source of a signal. Each message Diegert sent led Blevinsky closer to identifying him.
Next Chance: I was never arrested or clearly identified.
Darkmass: You’re free of convictions?
Next Chance: Quite.
Darkmass: Do you have a profile on the darknet?
Next Chance: No, I do not, but the recent completions are news in the Austin area.
Blevinsky kept Diegert waiting while he looked for news stories on the Web, allowing the worm more time to work. Once the worm was able to find the signal’s path, it was able to move through the various servers the Tor software had hopped between. Within minutes, Blevinsky had Diegert’s phone under surveillance. From it, he was able to identify him as David Diegert, extract his e-mails, and locate him by GPS. He learned that Diegert was twenty-five years old from Broward, Minnesota; had been dishonorably discharged from the Army; was a reasonably handsome guy with dark hair and features; had $2,604 in credit card debt; and was currently located in Austin, Texas. If he kept mining, he would find more, but for now, he had what he needed.
Darkmass: I see the news from Austin, a Mexican outside a bar and two guys in a suburb. Be in Miami in two days. When you arrive, you will receive instructions.
Diegert was surprised how quickly Sam and Peotor’s deaths had made the news. The bus station was only two blocks away. In the trunk of the car, he found a black reusable shopping bag into which he placed his useful items, tied the top of the bag, and walked to the station.
After a twenty-two-hour bus ride through most of which Diegert slept, he stepped into the blazing sun and heavy afternoon humidity of Miami. While walking away from the bus, his phone buzzed, and the text from Darkmass instructed him to take a cab to the Blue Pearl Restaurant and Nightclub in Miami Beach. En route, his screen revealed a photo of a large, mustachioed Hispanic man named Victor Del Fuentes. The accompanying text read: This is your target. Send a message when the job is complete. Make it look like an accident.
“An accident,” muttered Diegert after he paid the cabbie and approached the Blue Pearl. As he got closer, the expensive nature of this club became obvious. Dressed in casual clothes and carrying his shopping bag, Diegert simply passed by while gathering visual intel. The outdoor diners enjoyed a fabulous view of the ocean while an army of waitstaff attended their every need. Through the windows, more tables could be seen, along with a bar and a large open dance floor.
Diegert surmised that when the dinner crowd left, the Blue Pearl transformed into a partying nightclub. Farther down the street, he came upon Ocean View Park with its quiet public space next to busy Ocean Drive. From a food truck, he got a chicken fajita. It felt good to eat, and he sat looking out at the water waiting for darkness to fall.
Unknown to Diegert, Blevinsky tracked Diegert’s phone signal across a map of Miami.
During the long bus ride and now sitting through the setting sun, Diegert thought about what he had done and what he was going to do. Killing the two Russian g
uards was self-defense. A reactionary act anybody would have done, given the threat. Beating up Miguel Lopez was different; getting paid meant instigating the attack. There was no threat, no need, just an opportunity, and a greedy reward. Whoever killed Lopez, and it was obviously Dimitrov, had set him up, and that bad choice pinned him with three murders. Without intending to, he had become a killer of men and was now being hired to do it again. The experience of killing was thrilling, but now it was also guilt-inducing.
Do I just walk away from this and forget it? Diegert thought. I can’t really do that, because I’ll eventually be caught, convicted, and executed. If I complete this job and leave the US, I will have enough money to live in Europe and get away with this. I’ll live cheap, earn more money, and send it back to Mom. God, this sucks! I can’t believe I’m in this shit.
His mind went blank as contemplating the intractable situation failed to produce a better solution. His thoughts turned to how he would kill Victor Del Fuentes and make it look like an accident. Making a plan and thinking about the future as only a matter of hours was far more comforting than worrying about the rest of his life. Focusing on the Del Fuentes mission kept him from being paralyzed by the consequences of his earlier actions.
Darkness fell as the sun set, and he left Ocean View Park. Passing through the pools of light projected on the sidewalk by the streetlamps, Diegert could hear the sounds of a party coming from the Blue Pearl. He was attracted to the thump of music, the din of a hundred conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter and the kinetic waves of a crowd in motion. He knew the transient sense of camaraderie that formed as people were relaxed by alcohol and tacitly agreed that they were all having a good time.