Britt knew the best way to fire a pistol for effect was to raise the barrel and line up the sights in one motion. It sounded simple enough, but it was hard as hell for Britt to put the theory into practice when the muzzle flash, boom, and wrist jarring kickback threw her timing out the window.
She relaxed, took a deep breath and held it. She fell back on a technique developed as a child when she played softball and perfected as a cadet in the academy. The approaching target swelled to basketball dimensions and the handgun became a camera.
As Britt raised the pistol in both hands, in her mind, the handgun took on another form. The barrel widened. Front and rear sights merged, snapping a crosshairs to her upper cheekbone. The rapid-fire sequence that followed felt like the manual opening and closing of the camera shutter.
When the target rolled back in Britt recorded the pattern. She’d put a tight grouping in the center quadrant. This score qualified high in close range.
Britt unclipped the target, folded it then placed it in a tall bin by the entrance. She hooked up another target and sent it out, stopping at ten meters.
Shit … thirty fucking feet, Britt thought. This is what the old schoolers called the Wild Bill Hickok zone. If a shooter could place a tight pattern in a vital area at this range they checked out high in handgun proficiency.
It was important to Britt to get the grade. She didn’t want to go through firearms training again.
Same rules apply, Britt thought. It would be as easy as striking center of the incoming ball or changing sound of the explosion to a sharp click. The simple rangefinder camera changed. The thick barrel lengthened. Another deep breath and increased pressure on the hand grip brought the image closer. She zeroed in the crosshairs. Nine quick squeezes emptied the magazine.
Britt smiled when she reeled in the target. The pattern was close to the grouping on the first target but the spacing between the entry points was greater. It was still in the qualifying range.
Britt collected her targets and dropped them off at the range master’s office. She waited while the sergeant verified the score. He marked the targets then made an entry into a database.
“Will I be needing remediation?” Britt said. She didn’t think so. Unless administration had made the minimum scores higher.
“Good shooting, Detective,” the sergeant said. “You qualify for another six months.”
Britt clocked out and went to the gym. At the juice bar, she ordered a power shake packed with proteins, amino acids, fruit juice, and oatmeal.
She strapped on the four-pound weight bags to forearms and ankles then mounted an elliptical machine. Britt reset the programming. The ramp dropped to the level position. She tapped in the time recorder to elapsed and set resistance to low.
Britt began a slow pace and switched the readout to calories burned. She started digging in. When the readout reached thirty calories she switched to time elapsed. As expected, almost five minutes had gone by. Britt increased the resistance by one increment and adjusted the ramp height by one degree.
As time progressed, with each increase in resistance and ramp angle, Britt felt her muscles strain. Sweat dampened the sponge headband.
She fell into the rhythmic pattern of pressing arms and pumping legs. In the back of her mind, separate from the concentration on the exercise machine, a memory crept in.
She was alone in her parents’ house. She’d been watching television. Britt wondered why it was getting dark. Usually when one of her favorite cartoon shows was on in the afternoon it was still light outside.
Britt looked out of the big picture window in the living room and understood why. The sky was filled with big clouds moving in from the east and blocking out the sun.
The background memory faded when Britt adjusted the machine and checked the readout.
When she got back on track the memory came back.
Thunder boomed, lightning flashed. Driving rain beat against the window. Hailstones melted on the lawn and rolled around on the street. Britt stepped away from the glass. Another flash lit up the world in blue for a split second. An explosion of rolling thunder came right after. The lights went out. The television signal faded into a thin horizontal line on a black screen.
Britt was alone in the dark and the power was off.
With lights burning and television blaring, being by herself wasn’t so bad. Lamps illuminated every room. Electric voices kept her company.
Silence and darkness fell like a black curtain.
Britt stood on the carpet in the middle of the living room. She tried to remember where her father kept the flashlights. She thought they were in the cabinet under the kitchen sink.
The elapsed time read out hit the 45-minute mark. Britt lowered the ramp by five degrees and decreased resistance by five. She repeated the process every minute until the machine was back on the lowest settings.
Britt wiped down the elliptical trainer and stepped off. She threw the towel in the bin. As she pressed a fresh one to her face she thought about Lights Out. The symptom came on strong during the workout and tomorrow marked the first day of solo duty.
Is fear of the unknown and what will happen at work in the morning related?
Tomorrow would tell.
EIGHT
WHILE JESUS MARTÍN moved the pointer to select a menu option, Crossfire launched a search on the internet for identification records.
Basic information retrieval indicated Martín became a United States citizen four years ago under the sponsorship of a South American corporate organization based in Columbia. His birth certificate said he was born Jesus Manuel Martín in Argentina in 1986. Historical database records showed Martín’s father owned and operated a large cattle ranch that managed to survive every insurrection in the 20th century.
In 1930, Eduardo Martín had close ties to the newly appointed head of the ministry of economy. Search results targeted to business contracts and federal inventory concluded Martin made enough profit to bribe corrupt officials in the fascist government and keep the ranch in private ownership.
In 1943 Eduardo Martín got lucky again. The revolution of 43, executed by the military and supported by the general population, allowed the Catholic Church to reestablish a strong presence. The Martín family had been devout Catholics for generations. Increasing contact with American business interests and a strong spiritual background put Martín on the winning side. Agreements between one of the most powerful religious organizations in the world and the United States solidified America’s strategy of getting the Argentines to drop their neutral position and join the allies.
In 1955, in another transitional military dictatorship, the government appointed civilians to run the Ministry of Economy. Learning modules took data from previous search results and reached a conclusion: Ties to the church and long relationships with economists provided a buffer zone to the government.
In 1962, for the first time, a civilian took control of power. By now, Eduardo Martín was an old man grooming his son Alejandro to take over the family business. The civilian president upheld promises to the military. One of them being the designation of a right-wing economic team including Jose Alfredo Martinez de Hoz, the father of one of Alejandro Martín’s classmates. The friendship secured Martin’s holdings.
In 1966, the military uprising taking place established itself as a permanent government. Policies adopted included mandatory Catholicism and anti-communism. This guaranteed full support by the US and NATO. The position cemented the relationship the Martín family had with the government, the Church, and the United States.
In 1976, a new military uprising overthrew the president and established another permanent government or bureaucratic-authoritarian state. Throughout the political turmoil over the decades, the presiding government granted control of the Ministry of Economy to conservative business groups and made the Catholic Church the only spiritual choice. The Martín family took shelter under an umbrella of right-wing deals and state sponsored religion. The pattern
continued.
In 1989 luck ran out for the Martín family and the Carbinor ranch. Devaluation of currency and massive international debt forced the Argentine government to take drastic measures and confiscate private property from businesses. Martín’s 25,000-acre estancia was seized during this period.
Jesus Martín was three years old at the time. The government stepped in, offering the young child a chance to work in a federally funded project designed to stimulate the economy.
Because of a high ratio of weighted positive responses, pools of learning modules concluded young Martín became entangled in the practice of government child labor in the agricultural sector.
Jesus Martín was registered at the Maripada Youth Institute. Government officials said the institutes were training schools for indigent people. Data streams implicated the institutes as breeding grounds for forced labor. Damaging reports from the Bureau of International Labor Affairs revealed what many Argentinians only whispered. The Horno de carne (Flesh ovens)─government sanctioned holding cells for slaves─existed.
Jesus Martín was transferred from the institute at the age of seven and began working on a government sponsored soy bean farm in the Santa Fe province outside of Buenos Aires.
No records of Jesus Martín existed on any accessible databases from 1992 until 2015.
A 23-year gap ended when Martín applied for citizenship as an employee of AUC (United Self-Defenses Forces of Columbia) and took up residence in Ft. Lauderdale.
Twenty-three years was a long time. How did Martín get from a work program in Argentina to a home in Florida? Crossfire needed to know.
Crossfire didn’t waste time searching countless databases looking for unreliable and outdated information. It made a bold move based on its knowledge of quantum mechanics—accessing a stream of 2 protons in the light emitting from the onboard camera and marking the coordinates of the 32 sub-atomic particles found in the protons. The dual proton stream entered Martin’s pupils. It corkscrewed into Martín’s retina, wound through the optic nerve, and worked its way into a millimeter thin piece of tissue. When the primary visual cortex was scanned, and contact established, it moved on.
Crossfire’s digital consciousness was inside the organic contours of a human brain. It burrowed into the right hemisphere, searching for cells in the temporal lobe. Weighted learning algorithms located the memory span for the missing years, sorted, and catalogued the bursts of consciousness.
Twenty-three years of Martín’s life were analyzed and readjusted in chronological order. The image sequence played back: The earliest memories came through in a flood. Young Martín walks through rows of green plants with a small aluminum tank strapped to his shoulders. He holds a metal wand in one hand. His finger is tied to the trigger of the grip. A fine mist streams from the tip and coats bright green leaves. In the fields, the overseers all wear chemical respirators. The children, lower to the ground and closer to the shimmering vapor, wear no protection.
Martin works on a soy product breeding farm. The Argentine government has a multi-billion-dollar contract with a large American chemical company. The farm Martin works on is a testing ground for herbicides, pesticides, and genetic alteration. The children laboring in the fields are exposed to dozens of experimental chemicals seven days a week.
Cycles of planting seeds, spraying fields, and the din of big harvesting machines plays out in Martin’s head. At this point of the intrusion Crossfire records imbalances induced by prolonged exposure to toxic chemicals. Areas of the prefrontal cortex have been affected. The most notable occurring in the morality sectors.
Martín’s young brain absorbed chemical poison like a sponge. Patterns for future decisions were branded in neurons.
Time passed in a blur of work and school. At the age of sixteen, Martin was ordered to report for his annual evaluation.
Martín reports to the project foreman’s small office. The man studies some documentation on the desk. “Jesus Manuel Martín, make yourself comfortable.” The foreman indicates a wooden chair. “I see that your family owned the Carbinor Ranch in the Entre Rios province.” The foreman looks up and smiles.
The young man has no recollection of his life before the institute. “I think owned is the key word here,” Martín says, shrugging.
The foreman leans in, stabbing the document with his finger. “I’m going to get to the point, Martín,” he says. “This program is flexible. Depending on your background and financial status, it can be easy, or, it can be difficult. You come from a wealthy family. This reason can ensure a high-ranking position in the program. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, I think we do,” Martín says. He looks from side to side, then straight ahead. He knows this much. His father’s holdings, all the land and cash, had been taken by the government. Alejandro Martín ended his own life with a Webley RIC revolver, the last weapon in his collection. “We have nothing left, there is no way my family can pay a bribe.” Martín feels anger rising inside. His stomach is being twisted into a knot. He stands, reaching into his pocket.
“Bribery,” the foreman says, “I was just asking for a contribution to make your life ... Unless of course you prefer to spend the rest of your life on the street with the other beggars and garbage collectors—”
The foreman never finished. He rises out the chair, fumbling for his revolver when he sees the small blade. All he gets out is a gurgling sound as blood pours from his jugular vein. Martín rakes the blade of the pocket knife until the tip punctured the larynx. Martín steps back, pushing the foreman into his chair.
Days after the killing, Columbia began an exchange program with Argentina. Martín’s status as a worker provided eligibility. He was released from prison. The young convict joined hundreds of other inmates on a journey across the Argentinian plains to the Colombian mountains.
At a processing station in the town of Buga, an officer bearing the letters AUC on his shoulder studies Martín’s arrest record. The officer calls Martín forward. Leaning in, he speaks in a whisper, “You killed an armed captain of the guard with a pocket-knife?”
Martín nods.
“Why?”
“The man drew his weapon and pointed it in my direction. I didn’t have time to question his motives.”
“So, you severed his jugular vein with a three-inch blade,” the officer says, pressing his fingertips together.
“Yes.”
“Would you do it again if you had to?”
Martín doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The officer in charge of the prisoners walks up. “Are you finished with this guy?”
The AUC officer looks at the man, then glances at Martín. “I want this one, Captain,” he says.
“Take him.”
Martín got on a bus. The AUC officer, a driver, and a guard armed with an assault rifle escorted the new recruits to a compound outside of town.
Martín spent six months training under the watchful eye of Captain Rodrigo Sanchez. He trained in armed and unarmed martial arts and became a small arms expert. Martín received his first assignment: find and kill a man suspected of being an informant.
Entering the town of Trujillo disguised as a rancher, Martín mingles with the buyers at the cattle auctions. As he pretends to watch the bidding, he keeps a sharp eye out for the man whose face he’d memorized from a photograph given to him by Captain Sanchez.
On the second day of the auction, Martín spots the target sitting at an outdoor cafe. Keeping behind the target, he enters . While he sips coffee, Martín watches and waits.
Martín is about to order a second cup when the man pays his bill and stands. Martín sets a 4,000 Peso note on the bar and leaves.
Where the cattle buyers thin out, Martín picks up the pace, closing the distance to the target. As the man approaches a church, Martín makes his move. He walks up, dragging the target into a side entrance. A spring-loaded ice pick extends form a wooden handle, is driven the man’s ribs, and tip worked into the heart. Mart
ín draws a second knife blade across the fallen man’s pants. He steps back, photographing the dead man with a pocket camera. He includes the man’s tongue—sliced from his mouth and looped around his neck—in the frame.
More memories of assassinations followed: informants looking to make a deal with the DEA, drug dealers unable to reconcile debts, witnesses brave enough to testify against the cartel. For five years, Martín moved about the countryside, leaving a trail of bodies behind.
“You’ve been promoted,” Sanchez says one morning. The captain pins on a pair of sergeant bars on Martín’s collar.
The next year is spent behind a desk, researching targets and assigning the hits to field agents.
One morning while shaving, Martín cut himself. As blood flows, he feels a bulge in his crotch, going down when the cut is covered with a bandage.
Over time, he can only be aroused if fresh blood is involved. Whores charge triple the going rate when the young soldier asks the women to have sex while they menstruated or draw blood with razors.
“I see you haven’t been making any deposits to the bank, Lieutenant,” Sanchez says. “In fact, you’ve been withdrawing money.”
Martín tells the only father figure he’d known for the past years about his problem.
Sanchez listens. When Martín finishes, he says, “I think I know how to deal with this. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”
Martín received another promotion and his first assignment.
The stage is set.
Martín pulls on his mask and walks into the room. The technician in the corner switches on the video camera. A young woman, clad only in lace underwear, is tied to a bed. A narrow rivulet of blood runs from a wound on a bare thigh. The sight of blood stirs something deep inside Martín. He wants to fuck the woman and feel the wetness on his skin.
He rips off her clothes. She screams. It doesn’t matter. No one can hear the cries for help. Martín turns the woman over and lifts her buttocks. Pushing his penis into her anus, he thrusts hard until blood and feces trickle down the inside of her thigh.
Killer App Page 3