Mega 6: No Man’s Island

by Jake Bible

  MEGA 6

  No Man’s Island

  Jake Bible

  Copyright 2017 by Jake Bible

  Chapter One: In The Beginning…

  The door opened with a drawn-out creak, the man behind it wary and worried.

  “Yes?” the man asked.

  “Gene Row?” the visitor asked.

  “You have the wrong house,” the man replied.

  “We both know that’s not true,” the visitor said.

  The man looked the visitor up and down.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is unimportant,” the visitor replied. “Truly. What is in a name anyway? So subjective.”

  The visitor was tall, over six feet, tan, and dressed in khakis and a polo shirt. He looked like a fit golf pro. Could easily have been a golf pro except there was something about the eyes. The eyes didn’t reflect a personality that played games. Not that type of game, anyway.

  “Your name, on the other hand, means a great deal,” the visitor continued. “Are you Gene Row?”

  The man did not answer. The visitor sighed and stepped down off the small porch. He looked the two-story colonial house up and down, back and forth.

  “You have a nice house here, Gene,” the visitor said, as he continued to study the house. “Very nice house. A little big for you, don’t you think?”

  “Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?”

  The visitor ignored the questions.

  “Your wife divorced you two years ago and your kids are gone. Off to college or married. How is Tanya settling in with that construction foreman husband of hers? Any inkling of little ones?”

  “I’m calling the police,” the man said as he started to close the door.

  “115 Rosewood Avenue,” the visitor said.

  The man froze, the door still ajar.

  “What…?”

  “That’s Tanya’s address, right? 115 Rosewood?” The visitor smiled and pulled a phone from his pocket. He dialed a number, waited, then put it on speaker and held it up. “Have a listen.”

  There were voices on the other end. Voices that obviously had no clue they were being listened to. Then a woman laughed and the man at the door cried out.

  “Where is she?” the man shouted, his eyes darting back and forth, looking up and down the quiet, suburban street. No one was around. “What have you done with her?”

  “Not a thing. Simple listening device. She’s alone with one of her girlfriends. Having a light lunch and gabbing back and forth about the neighbors. Such a nice little life she has.”

  The visitor smiled wide. The smile did not reach his eyes.

  “I can end that life with a push of a button.”

  The man started to open the door wider, hesitated, began to close it, hesitated, then opened it all the way and stepped aside.

  “Yes. I’m Gene Row,” the man said, his head hanging low. “Come in. No way to stop you.”

  “Oh, there are plenty of ways to stop me,” the visitor said as he took the invitation and walked back up the porch then inside the house. “No one has figured out the ways, but there are plenty. You wouldn’t happen to have some tea, would you? I could go for some tea.”

  Gene Row whimpered a little, glanced out into his front lawn, then closed the door with a heavy thud and an even heavier heart.

  ***

  The horse refused to submit. The cowboy refused to quit. The two creatures were in a perpetual stalemate as they staked out their territory in the dusty corral.

  “It’s okay, boy. It’s all okay. Breathe easy. Nice and easy.”

  The cowboy held the lasso loose at his side. It swung there, back and forth, a mesmerizing metronome made of rope. The horse stamped the ground twice then snorted and shook its head. The cowboy nodded in response.

  “I hear ya, boy, I hear ya. But this has gotta be done. The sooner we get to it, the sooner it’ll be over and you and I can become fast friends.”

  The metronomic rope continued its mesmerizing movement.

  “Damn. I almost fell asleep watching that lasso of yours, Mr. Bergen,” the visitor said as he rested his arms on the corral fence.

  The cowboy spun about to face the visitor. The lasso was gone and in its place was a Glock 9mm.

  “I was expecting a Colt .45,” the visitor said. “Glock seems out of character for a cowboy. But then you aren’t really a cowboy, now are you, Mr. Bergen?”

  “My name is—”

  “No,” the visitor said. “Everyone says they aren’t who I think they are. Everyone is lying. How about you do us both a favor and not lie to me? It will make this process that much easier.”

  The cowboy clicked the hammer back on the 9mm. His hand was steady, his arm straight, his eye sighted down the barrel of the pistol, dead on the visitor.

  “I can count to ten or you can just leave, mister,” the cowboy said. “Either way, I want you gone right the fuck now.”

  “Nick, yes? Nicholas Bergen. Special Operations from 1978 through 1999. You are hard to find. Very hard. Some of the others barely hid their tracks, but you, well, you did a fine job. If I wasn’t me, you’d have never been found.”

  “I don’t know who you are, mister, so that statement don’t mean much,” the cowboy said.

  “Listen to you and your wild west affectation,” the visitor said, chuckling. “You have gone native. How long did it take to slip into this persona? The full ten years? Or did you become this yeehaw overnight? You have the training, so I would say it took you a few weeks of intense study and another week or so to get the accent and patois down just right. Folks know you aren’t from here, but they won’t call you an outsider because you talk and act like them. It is a shame your skills were no longer needed.”

  “What’s no longer needed is my ten count,” the cowboy replied.

  “Understood,” the visitor acknowledged. “Why give me a chance? Go ahead, Mr. Bergen. Shoot. It’s really in your best interest if you take me out now instead of hearing what I have to offer. I mean, if I can find you, who knows who else is on your trail.”

  “No one,” the cowboy said, but his hand shook slightly.

  The visitor noticed.

  “No one? Really? Come now, Mr. Bergen, you don’t believe that.” The visitor pushed away from the railing and walked around the fence towards the corral gate. “Do you think I came here on my own? Do you think that I’m some random stranger that knows every little detail about your former life and career and I happened to be in the neighborhood? Do you think I haven’t already reported your location just in case you decided to put that pistol to use, which I still believe would be better if it was a Colt revolver. You are not a delusional man, Mr. Bergen. I know that much about you.”

  The cowboy cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes as the visitor continued his walk to the gate.

  “So…now what? You aren’t here to talk.”

  “No. No, I’m not here to talk. Not really. But I am here to make you a deal. It’s a fair deal because I am a fair man.”

  “Terms?”

  “To the point and down to business. I like that about you.”

  “Terms!” the cowboy snarled. His hand steadied and he turned his head slightly, his right eye widening as he took aim.

  “You left behind a son, his wife, and three grandkids,” the visitor said. The cowboy failed at not looking surprised. “Didn’t know he’d gotten married? No, I suppose if you are to keep this charade up then zero contact is the only plan. I was certainly surprised when your son turned out to be a dead end. Parents are always so sentimental that they slip at some point. A random visit here, a chance encounter there, a quick view through binoculars into the living room while parked down the street
in an unassuming car. But, you? Nothing.”

  “You hurt him and I will destroy you,” the cowboy said, his voice full of emotion.

  “I don’t want to hurt him. I don’t want to hurt any of you. But I have a task to complete and the only way I can complete it is if I do a little hurting. Not much, but enough to get the job done.”

  The cowboy and the visitor waited in silence.

  Then, “How old are the kids?” the cowboy asked.

  “The twins are eight and the youngest was born last year. Such a cute little baby. A girl. The twins are boys.”

  “They’re safe?”

  “They are. I can guarantee you that much, Mr. Bergen. As long as you do what I say, they will stay safe. They do not have to be players on the board at all.”

  “They aren’t players on any board, goddammit!”

  “We both know the lie that statement represents. Everyone we touch becomes players. That’s how this business works.”

  The cowboy lowered the Glock. “So? What now? You kill me?”

  The visitor grinned. “Oh, far from it. In fact, you will probably live a very long life. But that long life will come with a condition.”

  The visitor wiped sweat from his brow and looked towards the large ranch house in the distance.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have some iced tea, would you? I could certainly go for some iced tea.”

  “I might.”

  “Excellent. How about we discuss your future over some iced tea?”

  ***

  “Ms. Haskel?”

  The woman kept walking, weaving her way through the crowded sidewalk, no indication she heard the name.

  “Ms. Haskel? Aubrey Haskel?”

  The visitor dressed as a golf pro caught up to the woman dressed in business attire. His hand reached for her left shoulder, but it never made contact. The woman spun about and slammed the palm of her right hand into the visitor’s nose. There was no crunch of bone and cartilage, but the visitor did yelp and grab at his face as the blood began to pour.

  The woman spun back around and took off running, her destination the subway entrance and stairs leading down into the subterranean transportation system of the city.

  The visitor sighed and followed. He took his time. Eyes darted towards the woman, a few voices called out in protest as she shoved people out of her way, but not one pair of eyes landed on the visitor despite the blood that dripped from his nose, over his lips, and down his chin.

  Brakes screeched and echoed off the tile that lined the subway station. The visitor reached the bottom of the stairs and looked left, looked right, then proceeded towards the turnstiles. He inserted a pass and pushed the bar forward, access granted.

  There was no sign of the woman. No wake of irritated commuters looking cross and glum to show she had shoved her way this way or that. The visitor sighed and went right. He threaded his way through the bored commuters, ignored the saxophone player that was mangling a version of Kentucky Woman, came to the edge of the subway platform, winked at a kid of about ten, then jumped down onto the tracks, careful to avoid the one that would light him up like a Christmas tree.

  There were shouts from the platform, but the visitor ignored those as easily as he’d ignored the barely talented saxophone player. The visitor walked his way into the subway tunnel, his hands in the pockets of his khakis. He had gone maybe a quarter mile when the tunnel was lit up by an oncoming train. The visitor kept walking then casually got to the side of the tracks to let the train pass.

  Once the train was gone, the visitor continued his journey through the city’s underground infrastructure. The smell of urine and rat feces was overwhelming. But not too overwhelming that he couldn’t catch the slightest whiff of Clive Christian perfume. The woman was leaving an expensive trail to follow.

  Another quarter mile and the visitor paused. There was a dark alcove about five yards ahead. The smell of perfume was much stronger.

  “Ms. Haskel? Aubrey, please, I will not harm you,” the visitor called out. “Unless you try to harm me. Would you mind putting that Desert Eagle away? I fear that pulling the trigger will result in both of us losing a good portion of our hearing. I don’t know about you, but I’m already at risk of hearing loss due to years in the field.”

  No sound, no acknowledgement, no movement. Nothing.

  “Very well. I don’t blame you for being wary. After all, you spent close to six million dollars to make sure no one like me could track you down. You must be wondering what link in the chain broke for me to find you. Let me put your mind at ease then. No one ratted you out. I’m simply that good.”

  Still nothing.

  “I’m so good that I was able to find where you buried your dog. According to the collar, his name was Virgil. Any particular reason you’d name a dog Virgil? Not your usual canine moniker.”

  Again, nothing.

  “Okay. The dead dog angle didn’t work. How about the alive brother? The one that is about to graduate from Brown? It would be a shame that after all his hard work on that doctorate degree, he should hit a streak of bad luck. Very bad luck. Luck so bad that not only will he not be granted that PhD, he could end up being accused of plagiarism. I am almost certain the evidence would be so damning that he could never recover.”

  A shuffle of a shoe.

  “And with his history of depression, well, it would stand to reason that he might crack under that kind of disappointment. And cracking could be lethal for that young man. We both know that is true.”

  Another shuffle then the slightest intake of breath.

  “Not here to fight, Aubrey. In fact, I’m here for the opposite. I’m not saying this won’t hurt. It will. But if you listen to what I have to say, you get to walk away with your life.”

  “Who’s to say you get the same consideration?” the woman asked as she made herself seen, a Desert Eagle pistol gripped in both hands and aimed directly at the visitor’s midsection.

  “Put that away and I’ll tell you how I found you and why,” the visitor said. “Keep that hand cannon aimed at me for five seconds more and the hurting will start early. At the risk of sounding chauvinistic, you have beautiful legs. Exceptionally proportioned. They will not be so lovely when I remove your kneecaps.”

  “You could never get to me before I gut shoot you,” the woman said. “Do you know what this pistol will do to your body?”

  “Yes. I know exactly what it will do,” the visitor said. “Do you know what a pen knife can do to a patella? Slit the skin and slide up under that floating bone. Slice the cartilage in a tight circle and the thing simply slips out. Goodbye kneecap. Hell, goodbye knee.”

  “Turn around and leave or I shoot. There won’t be a countdown.”

  “Right. Yes. My apologies.”

  The visitor snapped his fingers. The woman waited, but nothing happened.

  “I think you miscalculated—”

  Her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she crumpled to the ground.

  The visitor studied her for a second then picked up the Desert Eagle and tucked it inside his jacket. He then snapped his fingers again and fished out the earplugs he’d been wearing. He shook his head and regarded the unconscious woman.

  “I was lying about the kneecaps. I’m not that much of a monster,” the visitor said. “But a price must be paid. So sorry.”

  ***

  The visitor awoke to a very sharp blade pressed to his throat.

  “Do I say good morning or good evening? What time is it?” the visitor asked. The blade pressed harder and the visitor felt a trickle of blood work its way down his neck. “I have to be upfront and tell you that I’m married, so this fun knife play isn’t going to go anywhere.”

  “I am not playing, assassin,” the woman snarled in the visitor’s ear.

  “Assassin? Miss, I’m afraid you have me pegged wrong. I am no assassin. Believe you me, I am hardly the sneak around and strike type. When I strike, you see me coming a mile away. It’s part of my
charm.”

  “Your charm has come to an end,” the woman hissed.

  The visitor smiled in the dark.

  “What seems to be the issue, Ms. Paz? Losing motor control? Sudden numbness in your extremities? Possibly some blurred vision with sharp, stabbing pains in the temples?”

  The visitor opened his closed palm to show a single needle. Not a hypodermic or sewing needle, but one of the small needles used in acupuncture. He let the needle fall from his palm and onto the hotel carpet. It would be sucked up in some barely functioning vacuum cleaner later that day and be gone forever.

  The blade fell away from the visitor’s neck and the owner of the blade followed, collapsing onto the ancient and highly suspect carpet.

  “This is not how I wanted our introduction to go, Ms. Paz,” the visitor said as he slid from the bed and went to find his pants.

  He retrieved his khakis from one of the chairs in the corner of the hotel room, slipped them on, then turned to regard the woman gasping for breath on the floor. He crossed to her and crouched, resting his forearms on his bent knees.

  “Try not to struggle. The more you struggle, the more it will feel like you are suffocating,” the visitor said. “You are not going to die, Ms. Paz. Not tonight, at least. Very slow, even breaths. In, out. In, out. There you go. Continue with that rhythm and you will feel somewhat more comfortable in about five minutes.”

  The visitor stood and turned in a circle, his head cocked. He paused when he faced the hotel room door.

  “Are you alone? I certainly hope so. I can work with you if you are alone. If you brought an ally then I’m afraid you are no use to me. Take a sharp intake of breath if you are alone.”

  The woman took a sharp intake of breath.

  “Good. Good,” the visitor responded. “I will have to assume you are telling the truth. Lying means a good deal of pain for you and your ally. You are telling the truth, yes?”

  A second sharp intake of breath.

  “Excellent. That’s what I like to hear, Ms. Paz. Now, we are going to discuss some important business. Then things might get slightly uncomfortable for you. Painful, to be precise. I do not want to do this, but I have to. It keeps you, as well as myself, alive and well. Understood?”