by J. B. Turner
The door was shut behind him.
Nathan slumped in the seat and put his feet on the table.
The familiar voice spoke through speakers in the ceiling: “Nice to see you’re making yourself at home, Nathan.”
Nathan shifted in his seat.
“You must be wondering what this is all about, right?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
The lights went out and a photograph of a man appeared on the wall. “You know this guy?”
Nathan stared at the image. He knew who it was alright. “I believe he’s a journalist.”
“Can you identify him by name?”
“Mark Mahoney.”
“That’s right. Mark Mahoney. A New York Times investigative reporter hotshot. He was embedded with you guys when you were in Iraq, I believe.”
“That’s going way back, but yeah, that’s right.”
“Nice man by all accounts. Highly thought of at the Times. Nothing flashy. Does his job. Does it right. Does it good. He’s very, very thorough. Uses numerous sources to copperbottom a story.”
Nathan stared at the photo long and hard.
“This is also the man to whom you sent sensitive information about the operation you were involved in, to kill Senator Brad Crichton, isn’t it?”
Nathan said nothing.
“And this resulted, not surprisingly, in setting this guy to work. He’s been very busy since our facility in Scotland was compromised and destroyed. Recently, we’ve been hearing stories about Mr. Mahoney. And he’s been getting around. Paid a visit to the Outer Hebrides. He was seen with a Times photographer near the ruins of the facility. And they’ve been asking a lot of questions. We have it on good authority that Mark Mahoney is close, maybe a week away, from taking his story to the editor, who’s been kept abreast of developments. He’s taking a keen interest.”
“Do you want to get to the point?”
The man sighed. “Let’s establish where we are. You sent this journalist documents about the assassination, about how you didn’t really die a few years back on a mission, and that you had a new identity and a new look. Do you accept that?”
Nathan nodded. “Yes, I do.”
“Thank you. You did it out of anger. And we understand that. So you’re going to have to put this right. Look in the desk drawer.”
Nathan took his feet off the desk and opened the drawer. Inside was a buff-colored file marked Highly Classified. He opened it up and saw pictures of Mahoney and details of his life: blood group, interests, friends, and family. “Very comprehensive.”
“It’s a start. Study this. Learn about his haunts. His habits. His friends. You’re going to get into his life. Find out his routines.”
“And then?”
“Then . . . you’re going to figure out the best way to kill him.”
Five
Five security personnel escorted Nathan back to the plane. Once he was safely in his seat, he was blindfolded again before the plane took off. He was thinking ahead to the operation. The instructions. A lot of preparations had gone into this. Identifying the target. Taking his sister.
A short while later, once they were clear of the facility, the plane still climbing, he was allowed to take off the blindfold.
In no time at all, the plane was descending.
The Toronto skyline loomed in the distance. The plane landed at the city’s island airport, not far from downtown. He disembarked and headed through a pedestrian tunnel, where a car was waiting for him.
It was a short drive to a duplex apartment in downtown Toronto.
Nathan looked around his “base,” as the man had described it. Bright, airy, with pale-orange sunlight glinting through the floor-to-ceiling glass and stunning views of the city’s skyscrapers.
He locked the door, checked out every room. Inside the freestanding closets were new clothes his size: shoes, accessories, you name it.
Nathan went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at his new face, puffier with the filler, Botox around the forehead. Younger, stranger, eyes still cold. The same expression his father had. He had changed from a frightened boy to a man with a dead look in his eyes.
His thoughts turned to his sister. Where had they taken her? How had they gotten access to her? Was it an inside job at the psychiatric hospital? Was she at the same secret facility he’d been taken to in the middle of nowhere?
The questions wouldn’t go away. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? What was the endgame? Were they really going to leave his sister alone if he killed Mark Mahoney? Was that really plausible? And if not, what the fuck was he going to do?
More and more doubts began to encroach on his thoughts.
He wondered if the apartment was bugged. Were they watching him now? He was struggling to contain his anger. He felt sick at the thought of Helen being taken out of her comfort zone, being used as a pawn. But as it was, Nathan would have to go along with this hit. He had no choice. He was at their mercy. As was his sister. He would have to do as they said. It was a grave situation, but it was the only way.
Nathan realized he needed to keep up a front. He couldn’t let them know the true anguish that was devouring him. They might imagine what he was feeling. But he wouldn’t show it. Ever.
Instead, he needed to focus on the task at hand and deal with things like getting his sister back later, as the situation became clearer.
He sat down and began to read the file on Mahoney.
It soon became clear that this guy had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. An impressive career had followed. New England prep schools followed by the Ivy League, graduate entry-level job at the New York Times, and then he began to make a name for himself. Year after year, he was knocking it out of the park. Black Lives Matter, police corruption, Wall Street corruption. Then he moved on to bigger issues. Geopolitical in nature. He exposed corrupt politicians. Senators who took kickbacks from union bosses, Republican congressmen with links to the military-industrial-complex arms industry—on and on, solid stuff.
Nathan immersed himself in the file for another hour until his cell phone rang. “Yeah?”
“Settling in, Nathan?”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s great. Listen, if we’re going to do this, I think we’ve got to establish some trust.”
“I couldn’t agree more. So . . . what are you thinking?”
“I need to know my sister is alive.”
“I can categorically assure you, Nathan, your sister is alive. I was just talking to her fifteen minutes ago. She’s fine.”
“I want to speak to her.”
There was a pause. “We can do that. I’ll put her on now.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Hey, Nathan!”
The sweet voice of his sister overwhelmed him. Nathan closed his eyes—it was such a relief to hear her again. “Helen, just a superquick call. How are you being treated?”
“Your friends are great. So, so friendly.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Nathan, when will I see you again?”
Nathan sighed. “I’m kinda busy. But real soon. I just wanted to make sure you’re safe and doing well. So everything’s good for you?”
“They’re real nice. They said you’d asked them to look after me for a while . . . I liked where I was, Nathan.”
“I know you did. That’s good to know. And I’m sure we can get you back in good time.”
A few moments later, the man came back on the line. “She says we’re lovely. And we are. But Nathan, make no mistake, that will change if you don’t make this right.”
Six
Nathan was wearing flesh-colored surgical gloves as he watched through binoculars from the back of the Dodge Charger. He saw Mark Mahoney leave his apartment and felt a jolt of adrenaline run through his body. The journalist was speaking into his cell phone as he headed down the street, oblivious to Nathan’s presence nearby. Mahoney walked straight past his metallic-blue Audi A3 w
ith New York license plates, parked twenty yards down the road.
Nathan began to consider suitable options. He wondered if Mahoney could be killed in a car accident. He had been taught the Boston Brakes method. The method of assassination relied on a microchip transceiver being inserted into a car’s onboard computer, which then took over the steering and brakes. The result would be a high-speed car crash, the driver unable to control his car as it careered into oncoming traffic. Maybe a house. Then again, maybe when Mahoney was walking to work Nathan could hack another vehicle, which would plow into the journalist on a sidewalk, again at high speed. The beauty of such fatal “accidents” was that they would be blamed on the innocent driver or a technical malfunction.
The more Nathan thought of it, the more he liked the sound of such an accident. It needed serious consideration. Would that be the best way to kill Mahoney? The journalist lived alone in the rental apartment. So, theoretically, no one else would be driving the car. He could take the car while Mahoney was at work, carry out the modifications, and then return it as if it hadn’t moved all day.
Nathan’s mind was racing as his thoughts turned to another scenario. What if Mahoney was stabbed with a syringe or modified umbrella containing a paralyzing anesthetic agent? In the middle of a crowded downtown Toronto street. Maybe that would be a better option. Mahoney wouldn’t know what had happened. But within a few seconds he would collapse to the ground, unable to breathe, clutching his chest, having a massive heart attack.
It was a classic hit technique: suxamethonium chloride. It was colloquially known as sux, a paralyzing agent that brought on a heart attack. It ordinarily left no trace during a routine autopsy. Only a highly experienced medical examiner testing the brain through toxicology procedures could determine if there was a trace of the drug. The drug was used in hospitals all over the world for operations.
Nathan would need to wear a disguise. But that wasn’t a problem. He knew the drug was a tried and tested way of assassinating people. Passersby would think the guy writhing on the ground turning red in the face was just having a massive heart attack. And he would be.
A medical examiner would do an autopsy, cutting open the chest, examining the heart. They would find nothing amiss. No one would be any the wiser.
A few minutes later, a voice in his earpiece. “The subject has arrived at his workplace. Do you copy that?”
“Yeah, got it.”
Nathan waited a few moments before he got out of the vehicle. He pulled on a backpack and headed over to the tower. He knew the security cameras had already been remotely deactivated. It was apartment 624. He rode the elevator to the top floor and punched in the code, 0911. Then he opened the apartment’s front door and headed in, quietly locking the door behind him.
He took off the backpack, unzipped a side pocket, and took out a screwdriver. He reached up and unscrewed the smoke alarm above him, replacing it with an identical model with a hidden camera and microphone inside. He did the same with the carbon monoxide detector in the bedroom.
Nathan tested both alarms, which emitted piercing sounds for a few seconds. He clicked on a phone app. It showed real-time footage from inside the apartment. Then he replaced a room-freshener plug in the living room with one that contained another hidden camera and microphone.
He did a few more checks as he looked around the apartment. He knew Mahoney’s cell phone was already bugged.
Fifteen minutes later, he let himself out, backpack over his shoulder, and locked the door. He headed down to the Audi outside. He kneeled down as if tying his laces and reached under the car, attaching a tiny magnetic GPS tracking device.
Nathan stood up, brushed himself down, and got back in the Charger and pulled away.
It was nearly dark when Nathan finally finished rereading Mahoney’s file. Time had dragged throughout the day; he was preoccupied with his sister. But he knew he didn’t have the luxury of wallowing in self-pity. He needed to focus.
Over the next hour, Nathan watched remotely from his own apartment as Mahoney returned home. His experience told him it was good to get in close to see the true picture. Besides, what if Mahoney left his home suddenly? What then? But the downside was that getting too close brought its own risks.
The setting sun was glistening off the top floors of the downtown glass tower as he hunkered down in the surveillance space in the back. He put the wireless Bose headphones on and switched on the laptop showing the journalist sitting back on his sofa, calling his wife in New York.
Nathan sat in silence and listened to the conversation. He detected a tension in the wife’s voice. She wondered when he was going to return to Manhattan. But Mahoney reassured her he was making real progress. He hoped the investigation would firm up the story in the next couple of weeks and was planning to be back home in time for his youngest daughter’s birthday.
The sound of his cell phone ringing made Mahoney end the call early. Then he answered his cell.
Nathan watched and listened as the new conversation began.
The caller sounded Canadian. Sorry I haven’t managed to get that message to you. I’ve been busy. Will contact you with details in the next twenty-four hours.
Nathan reflected on the quick exchange. He called his handler, a man he’d worked with in the past, and relayed the information. “So what do you think?” he said.
The handler drawled, “So you’re back in the saddle, bro?”
“Something like that. What now?”
“Do you think the next contact will be by landline or cell phone?”
“Not sure.” Nathan pondered that for a few moments. “If it was me, I’d be doing a dead drop. Or maybe getting someone to drop a letter through his door.”
The handler went quiet.
“Yeah, that’s how I’d do it,” Nathan said. “Have we got the outside of the apartment covered?”
“Yeah, we already have a device fitted in the stairwell lights.”
“So we should have sight of whoever visits, if that’s how they play it,” Nathan said.
“Exactly. Stone, while we’re talking, I’ve been told you’re required to see the operation’s psychologist.”
Nathan reflected that it was the same setup they’d had for him in Scotland. He’d been monitored and analyzed to ensure he was up to the task.
“Look, they just want to check how you’re doing. That kind of thing. You OK with that?”
“My sister’s been kidnapped. How do you think I’m doing?”
“Sure. But—well, you’re required to see the psychologist anyway.”
“Where?”
“I’ll message the address.”
“Do I know him?”
“Oh yeah, you know him.”
Seven
The first tinge of a tangerine dawn peeked over the horizon as Dr. Mark Berenger pulled up at the remote house, fifteen miles from downtown Toronto.
He picked up his briefcase and walked up to the front door, cameras watching his every move. He pressed his thumb against the scanner and the door clicked open. As he pushed it open and went inside, the door shut automatically behind him. Inside was an inner door with another scanner. He pressed his face close and stood still as the retina scanner processed his details. The door clicked open. He headed up a flight of stairs till he got to his office, on the first floor.
Berenger took off his coat and hung it up. He sat down, turned on his laptop, and scanned his emails. Nothing important. He took his notes from the briefcase. He felt his stomach tighten as he thought of the meeting coming up. Face-to-face with a man he’d spoken to before. A man he knew very well. A man who fascinated him. A man who unnerved him at the mere mention of his name. He hadn’t shared his deepest, darkest thoughts and fears with those who employed him. They would have thought him weak. Soft. So he decided to move forward, ignoring the disturbing thoughts inside his mind.
Berenger leaned back in his seat and reflected on Nathan’s profile.
He’d seen numerous Special
Forces soldiers over the years. But there was something about Nathan that intrigued him. It might have been Nathan’s advanced technical killer skills, aligned with his surgically changed face, before he was resurrected by a private company loosely aligned to elements within the CIA. Some might dub it the “deep state,” and there was more than a grain of truth to that.
Berenger knew Nathan had an interesting skill set. The assassin’s forte was patience. He took it slow. He was methodical. There was an attention to detail. Nathan was never put off by difficult hits. If the target was to be deleted, Nathan would rather assess and evaluate the target, take his time. Monitor the target’s movements and home environment, and listen in on their conversations as he built the big picture before deciding how the target was to be killed. But perhaps more than anything, Nathan adapted to changes in circumstances. He wasn’t fazed.
Berenger hadn’t seen Nathan for a while. He stifled a yawn, not having slept well the previous night in anticipation.
The buzzer downstairs rang just after 8 a.m., snapping him out of his musings.
Nathan had arrived. Berenger got up from his seat and checked the video intercom to allow him in. He saw the familiar shape of the reworked face. Eyes deeper set. He buzzed him up.
Once again he was going to get acquainted with the deeply fascinating Nathan Stone.
A couple of knocks at the door.
“Yes, come in.”
The door opened, and Stone sauntered in. He looked around the room as if looking for cameras. “Nice place you’ve got here, Doc.”
Berenger smiled and sat back down. “Been in worse, trust me.”
Nathan went over to the window and stared out toward Toronto in the far distance. “What’s the purpose of this little chat?”
“We think it’s important we evaluate how you’re feeling.”
Stone turned around and looked at him. “Do you know about my sister?”
“It was brought to my attention, yes.”
“How do you feel about that, Doc?”
“How do I feel about that? I don’t have any views on that, Nathan.”