Contract to Kill

by Andrew Peterson

  With his arms crossed, Mason said something to them. It didn’t look like a well-received comment because the man wearing the ball cap jerked his head forward in a spitting type of motion.

  Toby inwardly cringed as Mason wiped his face.

  It happened fast.

  Mason drove his fist into Ball Cap’s stomach hard enough to detonate organs. Before the guy could recover, Mason swept his foot and sent the guy sprawling.

  The second guy turned to help his buddy, but never got there.

  Darla took him down.

  Mason produced a suppressed pistol and swung it like a hammer. The blow caught the second man on the side of the head. Mason grabbed the guy’s collar, dragged him away from the SUV, and kicked him in the ribs several times.

  The man curled into the fetal position and held still.

  Some kind of heated exchange took place between Ball Cap and Mason. Toby could only hear bits and pieces, but there was no mistaking the word chickenshit being yelled. Still on the ground, Ball Cap made it to his hands and knees, but no farther.

  In a casual move, Mason pointed his pistol at Ball Cap’s head.

  Oh man, no way . . .

  There was no sound, but Toby’s NV registered the brief flash.

  When the other guy tried to get up, Hahn kicked him in the face.

  Toby winced as the man’s jaw absorbed the full brunt of the energy.

  Mason approached the other man and shot him in the head as well. The guy didn’t die right away. His body wrenched in violent spasms for several seconds, then went still. Hahn laughed and made some sort of comparison to a headless snake.

  Toby couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. When he tried to swallow, his mouth was dry. He had no business being out here and cursed himself for meddling. How could he have been so stupid?

  He wanted to run, but if he did that now, they might see him. The sloped bank he used for concealment didn’t extend more than fifty yards along the access road in the direction he needed to go. If he retraced his steps across the baseball field, he’d be out in the open. He should’ve anticipated Mason would have night vision.

  Pinned down, he’d have to wait this out.

  Another contraction from the cold raked his body.

  He watched Hahn use a penlight to sweep the grass, probably looking for Mason’s spent brass. After thirty seconds, Hahn seemed to find what he was looking for. He then arranged the bodies side by side before doing something to their heads, but Toby couldn’t see what he did.

  He’d never seen anyone get killed—let alone murdered—and it sure as hell wasn’t like the movies. There was nothing glamorous or exciting about it. The words “brutal” and “perverse” came to mind. Those were his colleagues out there. How could they simply drive to work like none of this had happened? And he wondered the same thing about himself.

  Toby zeroed in on Darla. She said something to Mason, but he just shrugged as if to say, That wasn’t so bad.

  A few seconds later, the image in his NV flashed brightly. Four times. Were they taking pictures of the bodies? He then watched Mason open the driver’s side door of the SUV, sit down, and remove his shoes. He placed them in a garbage bag and handed it to Hahn. At the sedan, Hahn did the same thing and passed the bag to Darla.

  Mason and Hahn got into the sedan, while Darla climbed into the SUV. Both vehicles remained dark as they left the soccer field.

  Toby scrambled down the bank and lay flat next to the outfield fence.

  In thirty seconds the vehicles would be on top of him.

  He’d always believed he was fairly tough, but this sickening feeling of being unarmed and helpless hammered his nerves. He considered bolting again, but knew he’d have no chance against their NV devices. He’d be spotted for sure.

  It didn’t take a vivid imagination to know what would happen if they stopped. Toby could fight, but he was no match for three of BSI’s top military contractors armed with laser-sighted pistols.

  The menacing hiss of tires grew louder, and he pressed his forehead into the grass. No more than ten feet away, the two vehicles reached his position. Close to vomiting, Toby clenched his teeth. If the windows of the vehicles were down, they’d hear his retching for sure. Fighting the rising bile, he forced himself to breathe through his nose.

  The horrid image of Hahn kicking the downed man in the face invaded his mind. The blow must’ve destroyed the man’s nose—a cruel thing to do before killing him.

  Adding to Toby’s misery, his wet uniform stuck to his body like frozen plate steel.

  Keep going . . . please keep going.

  Then, as slowly as it had arrived, the sound of crunching tires receded to the south, back toward the fire-access gate.

  Toby sucked in a lungful of air and nearly vomited.

  His bladder suddenly burned. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed to pee.

  When the trailing sedan was far enough away, he eased into a kneeling position and took more deep breaths. He was tempted to stick a finger down his throat and just get it over with, but the worst of his fear had passed.

  He used the NV to locate the vehicles at the southern edge of the complex. They turned west along the outfield fence where he’d seen the single set of tire tracks on the way out here. In fifteen more seconds, they’d be outside the property and no longer posing a threat.

  Toby couldn’t wait any longer. He unzipped and relieved himself while kneeling.

  Getting up slowly, he looked at the prone forms on the soccer field.

  Neither of them moved.

  He’d heard of cases where people lived after being shot in the head, but how likely was that? Now wasn’t the time for heroics, in any case. For all he knew, someone could be coming to sanitize the scene.

  He watched Hahn close the gate behind the two vehicles and hoped they’d turn left out of the driveway. If not, they’d cruise past his parked Sentra.

  In a full sprint, he took off toward the tombstone-like structure, and sixty seconds later, he arrived at the fire-access gate. Breathing heavily, he retraced his steps across the weeds and noticed Mason had replaced the cut lock.

  He illuminated his watch and saw just under thirty-five minutes remained. Should he call 911? He knew he couldn’t use his cell phone to do it. What about a pay phone? No, that wouldn’t work—all 911 calls were recorded.

  He needed time to think, time to settle his nerves. What about car trouble? A dead battery. With the fog and mist, it would make a believable excuse to be late. But even late, how was he supposed to walk into BSI headquarters like none of this had happened? And he certainly couldn’t show up in a wet, disheveled uniform. The spot where he’d lain flat to avoid being seen hadn’t been solid grass. There’d been muddy patches. No way. There was no way he could go to work tonight, but it was bad form to call in sick with less than an hour’s notice.

  Bad form?

  He’d just witnessed a double murder, committed by his employer!

  He stayed close to the building and ran along the landscaped grass strip. When he reached the corner of the street, there were no cars present. He got into his Sentra and drove west, away from the driveway. He didn’t want to retrace any of his route over here.

  Man, this really sucks, he told himself again. Then he remembered something . . . something from the night that had changed his life.

  Feeling a new surge of hope, Toby Haynes reached for his wallet.

  CHAPTER 4

  Damp with sweat, Nathan awoke from the moth dream again. How many times this week? Four? Wasn’t time supposed to be the great healer? Yeah, right.

  He didn’t hate the winged insects, but they’d once tormented him to the brink of insanity.

  Two decades ago, the tail end of a CIA mission in Nicaragua had ended badly and he’d fallen into the clutches of a vicious interrogator. At least his
spotter Harvey Fontana got away, but Nathan paid a high price ensuring his friend’s escape. He’d bought time for Harv with unspeakable humiliation and agony. Their extraction from Nicaragua hadn’t been scheduled for two days, and his interrogator was determined to wring the details out of him and set a trap for the other Americano. Nathan held out and Harvey got out, but his vindictive captor had unleashed a lifetime’s worth of fury and frustration upon his captive.

  Montez de Oca had been exceptionally innovative. Bored with his daily medieval tortures, he’d tied Nathan to a tree one night and put a floodlight in his face. Nathan had thought it was just another wear-the-prisoner-down ploy—the tired, old light-in-the-face trick. The bulb was far enough away not to burn him, but damned bright.

  At first nothing happened and he’d thought he might actually get a few hours of sleep. Then a single visitor arrived, drawn to the lure of an artificial sun. The yellow moth landed on his nose and stretched its black-spotted wings. Nathan actually welcomed the moth’s company and thought it was a beautiful creature. He remembered cracking a smile—literally, his lips had been scabbed over from countless impacts.

  Then a second insect came, bigger than its friend.

  It didn’t take long for Nathan to understand the true horror of what descended out of the darkness. Within a few minutes there were ten.

  Then twenty.

  Joy turned to terror as hundreds arrived. They crawled across his face and into his nose, ears, and eyes. The more he shook his head to dislodge them, the more agitated they became. Their wings whirring, they orbited like a menacing swarm of bees before settling onto his face again. The sheer numbers threatened to suffocate him, but that was only part of the terror. Three long, open gashes on his cheeks were especially inviting, and the thirsty moths lined the wounds like antelope drinking at a river. Time stretched and lost all meaning.

  When his mind reached the overload point and felt like it was going to snap, the light winked out.

  Half an hour later, it started over again. Nathan remembered being so exhausted he thought he might actually die from sleep deprivation, and prayed he would.

  But God had other plans for him, because death hadn’t come.

  Salvation had.

  It took twenty-two days, but Harv finally rescued him. Thankfully, Nathan had no memory of being carried through three miles of jungle. His savaged body had been reduced to 130 pounds.

  Now fully awake, he focused on the pattern on the ceiling and sighed. At least he was still in bed. Most of the time he woke up on the floor. His record of remaining in bed for five nights in a row might be actually broken tonight.

  A glance at the digital clock confirmed he’d only been asleep for two hours. He watched the pale blue number change from 00:45 to 00:46. All things being equal, not a horrible evening. So far . . .

  He looked at the woman lying next to him and winced. He must’ve fallen asleep next to her, a mistake putting her at risk. More often than not, he came out of his dreams violently.

  No harm done. This time.

  Holly Simpson’s shoulder-length dark hair fanned out on the white pillow like a reverse halo. When they’d first met, he thought her hair had been black, but it was actually deep brown. Strands of gray were beginning to take a foothold, but she didn’t fight it. Nathan liked that. If men could look distinguished with gray, why not women?

  In a different life, Holly could’ve been a gymnast. She had the body type. Strong facial features reflected her Eastern Bloc lineage. In her midforties, she still silenced a room. Some women just had a commanding presence. It couldn’t be bought, borrowed, surgically added, or stolen. It simply existed. Like Nathan, she had no children, but she had several adult nephews by a sister in Boston.

  Holly had been the special agent in charge of the FBI’s Sacramento field office when a pair of inbred lowlifes nearly ended her life. The massive C4 bomb they’d detonated next to her building had stolen twenty-four lives and wounded dozens more. Holly had been lucky. She’d only been crippled for life. Only. Most of the time her limp wasn’t too pronounced, except when the weather changed. At least she didn’t need that damned cane anymore. It had pained him to see her walk with it. Still, walking with a cane had been infinitely better than the alternative—a rolling chair. Life could be so bad to good people.

  They’d often talked about their long-distance relationship, and although Holly said she was okay with it, there were times when Nathan wasn’t sure. He felt as though he was preventing her from finding someone else. She’d never voiced it, but he wondered if she wanted a relationship with someone closer to her new home in DC.

  One thing was clear: she’d gotten beyond his physical appearance. Nathan didn’t consider himself handsome no matter how many times Holly told him otherwise. The last time he’d felt this level of insecurity, he’d been lying next to a different kind of woman, a woman he’d mistakenly believed could give him more than physical pleasure. For two years, denial had hidden the truth. He never told Holly about Mara. What would be the point? What would it accomplish? Besides, he’d never asked Holly about her former relationships.

  Meeting Holly had changed everything. She’d opened a door that had been closed for so long, he’d forgotten what lay behind it. In one short car ride together on the day they met, Holly had managed to filet him from jaw to groin. Being so exposed had felt . . . what? Unprotected? Was that the right word? Maybe . . . unguarded. Truth be told, he’d found it a cleansing experience. She hadn’t pressed the conversation when he’d been initially reluctant to get too personal about his father, even though he ultimately had. She never pried and, more importantly, never judged. Their personalities complemented each other. Trust didn’t come easily to Nathan, but he trusted this woman with his life.

  “You’re staring again,” she said.

  Her voice startled him. “Huh? Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Have I been looking at you? Half a minute. Bad dreams again?”

  He shrugged. “Hey, I’m still in bed.”

  Holly rolled onto her side to face him. “Something on your mind?”

  “Just thinking about us. It’s hard to believe we’ve only known each other for five years.”

  “Does it seem longer?”

  “If I say yes?”

  Holly smiled. “It’s a compliment.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “I liked the movie we watched tonight. I hadn’t seen it since it was in theaters.”

  “Hannibal Lecter’s entrance was pure genius. Letting the camera come to him with him just standing in the cell? It was a powerful scene, set up by Dr. Chilton calling him a monster . . . ” Nathan’s expression changed.

  “You’re not.”

  “There are times . . . ” He’d once used the label on himself, and Holly had instantly rebuked it. He changed the subject. “I’m shrinking.”

  “Shrinking?”

  “My annual physical. I’m down to six foot four and a half inches, but my weight hasn’t gone down with it.”

  “Well, grab the pitchforks and light the torches.”

  “Why do we get along so well?”

  “We’re self-actualized.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In theory,” she said, “it’s the final level of psychological growth achievable when all mental needs are fulfilled, resulting in a complete realization of personal potential.”

  “What a bunch of psychobabble.”

  “It definitely is.”

  “Why’d you switch majors? You would’ve made a good shrink.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I disagree.”

  “In all seriousness? I wanted to make a tangible stand for something. I suppose law enforcement fit the bill.”

  Nathan remained silent for a momen
t. “How’s the new job in DC going?”

  “Good, so far.”

  “Good . . . What does Director Lansing have you doing, anyway?” All he knew was that her office was just down the hall.

  “It’s kinda complicated.”

  “I’m not trying to pry.”

  “I know. I guess it’s sorta like a management and think tank job all in one. Not exactly high on the action-and-danger spectrum.”

  Nathan had the distinct impression that by being vague about her new work, Holly was protecting him, but he had no clue from what. Maybe her work really was that sensitive. The FBI had its eyes and ears everywhere these days. Well, he didn’t need to know right now, or ever, for that matter. Nathan was familiar with secrecy. He’d lived his entire adult life mired in it. And still did. He and Holly often found themselves at a need-to-know dead end. He’d shared his most recent experience in Nicaragua . . . well, most of it. But there remained plenty of things he wasn’t comfortable telling her, some of which he’d shared only with a dying man.

  Holly traced one of the scars across his torso. “I’m not really tired now; want to watch another movie?”

  Nathan smiled. “I kinda had something else in mind.”

  “And that would be?”

  He wanted her. No . . . he needed her. And the thought of ever losing her scared him.

  His cell phone rang. Nathan frowned, fell back, and rolled to retrieve the device from the nightstand. A call at this hour needed to be checked—and in this case—answered.

  As the caller spoke, he stiffened and sat up straight on the bed. Holly followed suit, her eyes intense, watching for a sign of what the late-night call could mean.

  CHAPTER 5

  The caller was Gavin, the office manager at First Security, Inc., Nathan and Harv’s private security firm. She’d been with the company for thirteen years, and Nathan had never known her to exaggerate an emergency situation.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour, but the answering service operator says she has a man on the phone who insists on speaking to you. He says his life’s in danger and it’s an emergency.”