by Adam Hiatt
He parked the car close to the rear entrance and shut off the engine. He reached for the door as he spoke.
“It’s not safe to be on the road,” he said. “This is my hotel. You should call the police and wait inside until they come.”
He stepped out of the hybrid and scanned the parking garage. For some reason he expected the black SUV to appear at any moment.
“I never got your name,” Brooke said. She closed the passenger door and came around to his side of the car.
“Reddic Smith,” he said.
Brooke extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Reddic. How can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?”
The handshake was firmer than he had expected. He understood the unspoken message. She did not want him to go. Reddic contemplated his response. He was absolutely worried about her, but at the same time he didn’t want to give the wrong signals.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same thing.” He pulled his hand away and ushered her toward the building. “Let’s get inside before your friends show up.”
Reddic grimaced inwardly as he quickened his pace. There was something terribly wrong with what he witnessed. Those men in the SUV were professionals and they wanted to abduct this woman. It was a classic snatch and grab—quick and clean. Had it not been for Reddic’s unexpected intervention she would be lying unconscious in the back of their vehicle.
Clearly there was something else going on, Reddic knew, and this woman was right in the middle of it all.
4
The Basilica of the Assumption is located in the heart of the cultural district of Baltimore, known as Mt. Vernon. The neo-classical cathedral seemed anachronistic resting amid a modern urban area, complete with an array of bars, clubs, night lounges, and high-priced apartment buildings. Yet it has remained a timeless piece of architecture. Since the early 19th century it has been considered a masterpiece and is one of the premier Catholic pilgrimage destinations within the United States.
The assassin waited inside the Enoch Pratt Library directly across the street from the basilica. He sat alone in a dimly lit corner of a reading area casually peering at a book. At least that was the image he hoped to portray. In reality, he was studying every person leaving and entering the basilica. He had been sitting inside the library for close to ninety minutes studying every face, every mannerism, and every suspicious nuance. In his business very few lived to spend their money without being paranoid.
But he had been waiting for one person to enter. A quick check of his watch showed that it was nearly time to close the library. The last of the patrons were making their way to the front exit. The assassin had been vigilant long enough. His contact had entered the cathedral. It was time to report.
Outside the library, the streets were swelling with both foot and vehicle traffic. Nightlife in Baltimore’s downtown was just starting. It was a perfect cover for anybody who did not want to stand out, which is exactly what the assassin did not want to do.
He made his way to the corner of Cathedral and W. Mulberry Street and crossed with a pack of young urbanites. He approached the basilica from the west, taking in the grandiose Greek portico highlighted with spectacular Ionic columns. His gaze shifted higher to where a pair of cylindrical towers stood before a massive onion-shaped dome that marked the intersection of the classic Latin cross basilica architecture. Although he was not necessarily a connoisseur of the arts, the assassin found it impossible not to admire the structure.
He swiftly ascended the steps and entered the basilica’s main doors. Once inside, he passed through the nave and headed to the east side of the main floor and stepped behind the high altar. To his right was a narrow set of stairs that led to the undercroft below. Checking once more that he was alone, he descended the steps in near silence.
His paced slowed considerably as he neared the bottom. The brilliant natural light and sumptuous architecture of the main floor was replaced by dimness and an expanse of plain exposed brick support arches. The room smelled of stale air and dirt. Despite having been in the crypt on several previous occasions he couldn’t shake the feeling of claustrophobia and apprehension. There were too many shadows and too few exits for him to feel any level of comfort.
The assassin tentatively stepped into the corridor between the masonry. After a few yards he passed through a curtain that led to a small alcove to his left. Four candles mounted on walls and pillars flickered light over an unadorned wooden altar, no more than a yard in height. The candles’ flame cast an orange hue over the enclosed space. The room was completely empty except for the altar. He knelt before the altar and rested both arms on top, waiting for his contact to arrive.
A rustling from his right put him on edge, but he didn’t move. He had been expecting this. A man in unembellished vestments passed through the curtain and came into view. The hood of his robe was placed over his head to conceal his face. The assassin resisted the urge to look up. Protocol dictated that he wait for the man to stand opposite him at the altar. The assassin knew it was his obligation to open the dialogue.
“Bless me father, for I have sinned, it has been two weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins,” he said. If he were really confessing, he would continue to list his perceived sins, but this was anything but a confession.
This was a sacred ritual performed by the Priest in the confines of the cathedral. If he were making contact in a public place a different sign and language would be used. The assassin felt an abundance of pride knowing that he had ascended to the highest level of the Priest's confidence.
Very few people knew the Priest like he did. There was a time in his life when the assassin thought that he would never have a relationship with anybody. He had no biological parents that he knew of. His mother had died shortly after his birth and his father’s identity was a mystery. He was an orphan before he was adopted by an older couple. But after his first stint in prison they abandoned him too. Then, after his second incarceration, the rest of society followed suit. His life was at a precarious crossroads. He realized that a larger portion of his adult life had been spent behind bars than anywhere else. He was on the verge of ending it all. He looked for ways to take his life while in prison, but he could not bring himself to do it. Instead, he resorted to instigating fights with other inmates. He quickly realized he was much better at taking other’s lives than his own. And that was when the Priest somehow found and saved him.
“I pray for your guidance, father,” the assassin pleaded. He reached up and offered his hand for the Priest to take.
“What do you desire of me, my son?” asked the Priest. His voice was a deep, soothing baritone.
“I desire illumination.”
“Swear by your throat and you shall receive it.”
The Priest reached out and clasped his hand. The assassin brought his left thumb across his throat as he spoke.
“I swear by my throat my life and loyalty to you in exchange for what man desires.”
The Priest continued to hold the assassin’s hand in his. “You shall be given what you desire.”
The assassin felt pressure and a small prick on his right wrist. A warm sensation began to trickle down his forearm.
“What is the name that controls this blood?” asked the Priest.
“Mahan.”
“You are worthy to receive illumination.” The Priest released his hand. The assassin, Mahan, applied a piece of cloth to the punctured skin to ebb the bleeding.
Mahan was the name given him by the Priest when his life was saved. It was his new name, his new identity. The name brought with it power; the Priest had told him. It differentiated him from the non-believers. It provided a new life that only a few were privy to. It was the key that unlocked a gateway to secret knowledge; and knowledge, the Priest explained, was where the real power was. Any violation of the oath that he had taken would not only terminate said power, it would end his life.
Mahan was
not about to call that bluff.
“I have come to report on my assignments,” Mahan said.
“Proceed,” the Priest stated.
“Feldman tried to stall, as you predicted. But he also broke the covenant and threatened to expose the brotherhood. I was left with no other option but to fulfill our oath and eliminate him. However, I was able to confirm the late doctor’s colleague. Here is her photo.”
Mahan passed the folded image across the altar. The Priest grabbed it and immediately unfolded it to examine behind the candlelight.
“Have you memorized this face?” the Priest asked, after a moment of silence.
“Yes. My men have all studied the same photo and have committed it to memory.”
Smoke suddenly filled the air, but Mahan was not alarmed. The Priest was burning the photo.
“What of this woman?” the Priest continued. “Have your men found and apprehended her?”
Mahan hesitated. The Priest was not going to like what he had to report.
“After her spinelessness partner was killed, she disappeared. She fled the conference. My men tracked her to California.” Mahan paused to gather his thoughts. “But she escaped them last night,” he said at last. “She came across some unexpected assistance from, what my men say, was a professional. They are gathering more information as we speak,” he quickly added.
The Priest did not respond. The silence was unbearable. Mahan could hear pronounced breathing but refused to look up. His mentor was obviously seething, trying to temper his emotions.
“I saved you, Mahan,” the Priest said at last. “And this is how you repay me? With excuses?”
“But we didn't expect--”
“Silence!” the Priest ordered, cutting Mahan off. “The sacred oath you took does not provide for excuses.”
The Priest's voice suddenly took on a menacing tone. “You find her,” he said. “You acquire her research. Eliminate anybody who interferes, but the woman must live, for now. The stakes are too high.
“Only she can complete the formula.”
5
The visitor’s locker room inside a professional basketball arena is not nearly as luxurious as the home teams. There was no custom carpeting adorned with the franchise’s logo, no state-of-the-art entertainment systems within each individual dressing area, no oversized television screens mounted on every wall, and rarely were there hot tubs to soak in after games. The quality of the visitor’s locker room may not be extravagant, but it was still comfortable.
Reddic sat alone in his dressing area lacing his shoes and preparing his things to leave. He wore a gray cotton t-shirt and black sweatpants. He tossed his jersey into the laundry basin at the middle of the room for the team managers to collect, wash, and store for the summer. It would be the last time he wore that uniform for at least five months.
He leaned back and contemplated the end of his rookie season while reporters hurried around the locker room gathering quotes from some of the veteran players. Reddic knew he would have plenty of time to himself; not only had his team failed to make the playoffs, but he enjoyed the distinction of being a lowly back-up point guard from a small university in a mid-major conference.
Unlike most rookies who passed through the league, Reddic didn’t suffer too many low points. That could be attributed to the age disparity that existed between him and his fellow rookies. Reddic was a twenty-five-year-old rookie, easily four to five years older than the others. He played four years of college basketball, took a red-shirt year, and sat out another when his parents were killed. In an era when most pro-level players stayed only one or two years in college before making the jump into the deeper waters of the league, Reddic was an anomaly.
Still, his first year was solid. He made the all-rookie second team and saw his minutes increase as the season progressed. A good off-season of training and development, he knew, could easily put him in the starting lineup next year.
The thought disappeared from his mind as he saw an attractive reporter enter the locker room. Reddic wasn’t the only person to notice. At least half of the team turned to size her up. The woman looked to be in her middle to late thirties. She wore a stylish charcoal pinstripe skirt that stopped at her knees, showing off her slender legs, with a yellow blouse. Her brunette hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her press badge, hanging from her neck, swayed back and forth with the rhythm of her hips.
Reddic sat up straight as he realized that she was heading right for him. A few shameless players dropped their towels to the floor to steal her attention, but she didn’t even flinch. She had a destination and would not be deterred.
“Hello, Reddic,” she said as she reached his dressing area. “Do you have a moment for a one on one?”
“What do you want to talk to me for?” Reddic asked. He stood to gain a physical advantage, but soon realized it was a worthless effort. Flat-foot she would stand at least five-eleven, but the heels she wore put her at eye level.
“I work for Northwest Magazine and am writing a piece on all professional athletes from the Pacific Northwest. You had a good year and I want to make sure my readers know about it.”
“I don’t need any press,” he said. “The last thing I need is to be dependent on you guys to create a positive image for me and then have you turn around and burn me when it benefits you.”
“Don’t be silly, Reddic. This is not a critical expose. It’s a feature article highlighting your accomplishments.”
Reddic could hear his teammates jeering him. To shun the press was sacrilegious for the typical ego-driven pro athlete. The last thing he needed was more grief from these guys. Their season was over; they narrowly missed the playoffs. He had nothing planned for tomorrow. It wouldn’t hurt to answer a few questions.
“Walk with me to the bus and I’ll give you a few quotes.” Reddic grabbed his backpack and casually strolled out of the locker room with the reporter in tow.
As soon as they were out of earshot Reddic turned to the stylish reporter and grinned.
“So now you're a reporter, Madison? You must be miserable right now, considering you loathe the media.”
“You couldn’t even begin to imagine,” she said.
Reddic wondered when this woman would need his services again. He wasn’t the least bit surprised that the very second his season concluded she was in the shadows waiting to put him to work. Her name was Madison Jenkins and she was the director of the Executive Office Services (EOS), an ultra-clandestine special operations division buried deep within the intelligence community.
In the months following the worst terror attack in United States history on that fateful September morning, every intelligence agency was reevaluated and assessed. It was determined that most were handcuffed with too much bureaucracy, too much red tape, and certainly too many incompetent pencil pushers to operate effectively. Therefore, in order to respond to the rising threat of global terror and chaos, the Department of Homeland Security was created. At first glance it appeared to be nothing more than excess government, profligate waste, ineffectiveness and lack of transparency, but it served a profound purpose. With an annual budget surpassing $100 billion and over 240,000 employees, it was the perfect cover for EOS.
Unbeknownst to all but a few of the political elites, Jenkins, the former director of the National Counterterrorism Center (NCTC), was asked to run the division that was created years later. She was given a direct line to the President of the United States. Officially, she was on the White House payroll as a policy advisor. The ambiguity of the title provided the latitude necessary to manage the day to day operations of the covert ops department.
In the beginning it was just a small operation called SC-7. The title held much significance. Just as there were seven stars on Charles Messier’s Scorpius, so too at the beginning were there seven operatives working for Jenkins. Yet no agent was familiar with the identity of any of the others. Its scope, resources, and assets have improved greatly over time, as well as the number
of operatives, but it was still a tight-knit group.
When Jenkins recruited Reddic she explained that like the scorpion, the members of the unit worked alone and were expected to produce results. They were to gather intelligence, and if the opportunity presented itself, they would strike, and strike hard when the enemy least expected. The sitting president, James Rutherford, changed the name to EOS in order to make it more ambiguous, more tightly sealed. He made sure no oversight committees would question its budget, its methods, or its jurisdiction. It was a remarkably self-sustaining, efficient, and invisible tool often utilized for delicate, unorthodox and sometimes extraordinary purposes.
Reddic was one of Jenkins’ first recruits. He remembered their first encounter vividly. It was outside Madison Square Garden after a game while he was in college. She left him a coded message that piqued his curiosity. There was a number for him to call if he wanted to learn more. He knew that if he made that call his life would never be the same, but something deep in his core compelled him to do it. Over the next several months she put him through the ringer, including setting up scenarios that were hazardous to his health and wellbeing. He later understood why. She needed to know if he was cut out to do this type of work, but more importantly, she needed him to know it.
He quickly learned the trade secrets and advanced at an accelerated rate. According to Jenkins he was a covert operations officer, but he knew better. He was a spy, and a good one at that. His athletic talents provided him with the perfect cover to travel, meet a broad array of people, and most importantly, dispel almost any notion of subterfuge. But it all came at great personal cost. In order to be most effective as an operator he needed to keep a low profile, a sacrifice that cheated him of large sums of additional money. He stayed off social media, he turned down endorsements, and he stayed out of the limelight, all in the name of maintaining anonymity while away from the basketball court.