I wasn’t shocked when the database failed to provide a name. Then the computer showed a record that I’d already scanned the fingerprint.
Something must have gone wrong. I entered the first finger print again.
Again the website failed to give me a match, and it reported the same print had been entered three times.
I stared at the screen, quieting the questions pinging through my mind. I asked the site to compare fingerprints from the first woman I’d killed with the second.
A match. An exact match. According to the database, not only did the two hitwomen look the same, they were the same.
Not possible.
I’d killed the woman in the health club. I’d stake my life on it. And that was no zombie who had almost killed me outside Victor’s apartment. So how could they have the same fingerprints? Two people never had the same whorls, loops and arches. Even identical twins each had their own prints. Theoretically, even clones should.
I stared at the pad of my thumb. I was conscious of time passing, a clock ticking in the apartment. The hum of the refrigerator. Mozart’s low purr as she rubbed against my leg. Finally I scanned my own print. I hit enter and waited for the result.
An exact match.
The background sounds of the apartment rose like a buzz in my ears. I checked the results. I made a new scan and checked it again.
Not only were the two women I’d killed the same person, but I was that person, too.
I forced myself to breathe. In and out. Slow. Calm. The buzzing started to fade, and I heard traffic on the street below and water rushing through pipes. I reached down and scratched Mozart under the collar.
The phone rang.
Victor’s answering machine picked up on the third ring. “Probably at work. Leave a message.”
Trying not to notice the little jolt of pleasure I took from the sound of his recorded voice, I pushed up from the chair. There had to be an explanation for the fingerprints. I needed to focus on finding it.
The answering machine beeped. “Chandler, it’s me.”
My heartbeat stuttered and for a second, I couldn’t breathe. I hadn’t seen him since I’d finished training, but his voice was always in my head.
The Instructor.
“Chandler, I’m in a car parked out front. We need to talk.”
SOME TIME AGO
“You’ve been specifically chosen for Project Hydra based on a specific set of criteria,” The Instructor said. “Training will be challenging. Once you begin, you will not be able to quit. The only way you’re leaving the training facility is in a body bag.”
DAY 1
My room is small, unfurnished except for a bed, a clock, and a dresser for clothing, which has been provided for me. Fatigues, socks, a belt, combat boots, green cotton underwear. I read somewhere that the military never issued any white clothing, because it could be used as a flag to surrender. There was also a shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows.
I just arrived from Fort Knox, where I received infantry training after completing basic. A man met with me the day before graduation. He had no rank on his uniform, and didn’t mention what branch of the military he worked for. Only that I was picked out of ten thousand possible candidates for a special branch of service, and if accepted I’d be earning over a hundred thousand dollars a year.
Ten minutes after graduation I was on a helicopter. We flew for sixteen hours, stopping to refuel twice. I noticed we were heading north, but wasn’t told of our final destination. When I landed late in the evening, a man I knew only as The Instructor met me, took my personal belongings, and showed me my room.
There is no TV, no radio, no phone. I’m not allowed any contact with the outside world. The Instructor gave me a pad of paper and a pen, and I was told to write a journal, even though I won’t be allowed to keep it when I leave here.
So far, The Instructor is the only other person I’ve seen. He said I wasn’t allowed to tour the compound without permission, and when he left me for the night, he locked me in.
DAY 2
When I woke up, I was ordered on a ten kilometer run on a trail around the camp grounds. Judging from the flat terrain and cool air, I think I’m in the Midwest, maybe southern Illinois or Ohio. There are barracks, a mess hall, and a few other buildings, all empty and in disrepair. The compound is split into two parts, a fence between the halves. The Instructor and I seem to be the only two people here.
After the run, I was told I’ll be issued a television and required to watch various videos. After each video, tests will be given.
I made my own breakfast in the mess hall; powdered eggs, reheated sausage, and standard Army coffee. Only a few parts of the camp have electricity, powered by a gas generator.
The first class of the day was bladed weapons. The Instructor and I sparred for eight hours, and I learned how to wield and conceal common weapons such as folding knives and bayonets, along with uncommon ones, such as how to turn a plastic safety razor into a lethal device. If I still had parents, they’d be proud.
That night, after dinner of a sandwich and more coffee, I helped set up a TV and VCR in my room and was ordered to watch a lesson on speaking Russian.
DAY 3
Weight training. Another run. Knife and axe throwing. Another Russian video. It’s like being at Rambo camp.
DAY 4
Six excruciating hours on picking locks. The Instructor seems to have no personality, no sense of humor. But unlike previous teachers I’ve had, he has an infinite amount of patience. I have yet to see him get emotional about anything.
Maybe he’s a robot.
Another Russian video, plus a video on Zen Buddhism, of all things.
DAY 7
Too exhausted to write for the last few days. Running 15k now daily, plus weight training. Practiced hand-to-hand combat with The Instructor, took a test on speaking Russian, getting more Russian video lessons.
The food is sub-par, and it’s rather lonely, but I’ve grown used to that.
I like it here.
DAY 12
Finally met someone new. A short man, older, only spoke Russian. He didn’t give his name. He spent the day teaching me long range sniper techniques. After many hours, I was able to hit a melon from a kilometer away.
I wonder what they’re training me for.
DAY 14
Haven’t seen The Instructor in a few days, and all of my training is indoors. Once again I wonder if I’m the only trainee at this camp. If there are others, why aren’t I allowed to see them?
DAY 17
No more Russian videos. Now it’s Mandarin Chinese. Been practicing karate for the past few days. The Instructor is very good, but I managed to knock him down twice. He’s still all business, completely unemotional.
I’ve lost weight but am gaining muscle. My stomach is ripped. I don’t think big biceps on women are sexy, but I can do a hundred pull ups without breaking a sweat.
DAY 18
I almost died today.
The Instructor had been putting me through some balance exercises, and I was told to climb a pole and walk across a rope strung to an opposite pole. The pole wasn’t very high, only five meters, but once I was up there vertigo kicked in and I couldn’t move.
After a minute of being frozen, I asked to come back down. The Instructor pulled his sidearm and said he would shoot me if I didn’t get across that rope within the next ten seconds.
I took four steps, fell off the rope, and hung onto it.
The Instructor fired five rounds at me while I crossed to the other pole, hand over hand. It scared me to the bone. I’ve never had live rounds fired at me before. One bullet actually went through my pants cuff.
When I got to the other side, I couldn’t help it. I was crying.
He calmly reloaded his pistol and ordered me to do it again.
I went back and forth between those two poles nineteen times before I could finally walk the rope.
I think The Instructor might be psyc
hotic.
DAY 19
No mention was made of him shooting at me. The Russian came back and showed me how to field strip and reassemble a ridiculous number of guns. We worked for twelve hours, and then I had two hours of Mandarin lessons.
I’m wondering if I’ll ever get a day off.
DAY 22
Still no day off, and when I asked The Instructor how long this training will last, he told me, “As long as it takes.”
A new teacher arrived. This one spoke only Mandarin. No name offered. I knew enough to understand much of what he said. We spent the day meditating, and he showed me how to isolate my senses. That night, more Buddhism videos.
DAY 29
After a week of espionage and surveillance techniques, I got a new teacher. A woman, older, lacking personality just like The Instructor, whom I haven’t seen in a few days.
The woman is a pilot. I was put in a flight simulator and taught how to fly a helicopter.
Again I’m wondering what I’m being trained for.
DAY 36
I finally took a Huey up. A real live chopper! I flew over the camp, and for the first time saw how isolated it was. Nothing but plains, for miles in all directions.
DAY 59
Haven’t written in a while. Too tired, too busy.
I’ve learned so many martial arts they’ve begun to blend together, though I can regularly beat The Instructor in most of our hand-to-hand combat sessions.
I’m an expert sniper now, and can shoot a baseball from a mile away in a crosswind.
My Russian and Mandarin are improving, and I’m learning French and Arabic.
DAY 65
Instead of a 20k run this morning, I was taken to a field, given a handgun, and told to shoot a cow, laying in the nearby field. It has a broken leg, and was wailing in pain.
I put two rounds in its head.
Now I’m wondering how its leg got broken.
DAY 70
Along with weight training, I’ve begun to meditate every day. I’ve learned to slow down my heart rate, and put my mind into a theta rhythm. This enables me to hold my breath for over two minutes.
It also has helped me to really focus my senses, so I have a better idea of what is going on around me. I’m using my ears more. My nose. It’s weird, like being both tuned in and detached at the same time. I feel more aware of everything.
DAY 76
Skydiving fucking rocks!
DAY 78
Another cow. This one was healthy. I was told to kill it, and refused.
Using an iron rod, The Instructor broke the cow’s leg.
When it began to scream, I put two rounds in the poor creature’s head.
DAY 85
I’ve been having nightmares about the cow. Other than that, training is going well. Got a new teacher, this one a Saudi. He taught me how to make IEDs—improvised explosive devices—out of various materials. Also taught me how to disarm them.
DAY 91
Another cow. Completely healthy.
I shot it dead two seconds after being ordered to.
DAY 101
Balance is improving. I can get through an obstacle course while walking on my hands. I stood on top of a pole on one leg for six hours in a strong breeze. I can walk fifty meters on a high wire.
The other day, I was taken to one of the closed-off rooms of the compound and shown an autopsy in progress. I had to participate, putting on gloves, using the scalpel.
It didn’t bother me like I felt it should have.
Later, I had to take a test on various organs and bodily systems. I learned eight different killing blows, and why they worked. Human beings are more fragile than I thought.
DAY 121
I think I’m starting to crack.
I’m learning so much, so fast. I feel parts of my personality slipping away. Who I am. Who I want to be. Instead, they’re being replaced by cold, impersonal training.
Maybe I’m becoming a robot, like The Instructor.
DAY 130
Another cow.
This time, I wasn’t ordered to shoot it. I was given the iron bar and ordered to beat it to death.
I followed orders, but I cried the whole time.
DAY 135
I flew an ultralight today. Very cool. And much simpler than the Huey.
DAY 145
I miss people. Men mostly.
I find myself thinking of Cory. Not sexually, though for all of his psychotic tendencies, the sex was good. I’m thinking about him because I’m such a different person than the little girl he took advantage of. If I met him again, I’d kill him.
Or maybe I’d fuck him first. I’m that horny.
DAY 146
The Instructor acknowledged something I’ve known all along; that he’s been reading my journal. He said that a healthy sex drive is natural in both men and women, and he offered, in that flat, emotionless way of his, to have sex with me.
Like he was asking if I wanted a cup of coffee.
I almost agreed to it.
DAY 150
I was forced to watch a snuff video.
It was in Arabic. A fat, one-eyed man was interrogating a bound Pakistani. He tortured him with electricity, a knife, and finally a blow torch, all the while asking him inane, unanswerable questions.
It lasted for three hours. I wasn’t allowed to turn away.
I threw up twice.
Afterward, The Instructor brought me to a part of the compound I hadn’t been to before. The brig.
Sitting in the cell was the one-eyed torturer.
I was ordered to shoot him.
I did it, quicker than it took me to shoot the cow.
DAY 151
After the day’s training, terrible thoughts swirling in my head, I told The Instructor I wanted to take him up on his offer.
We didn’t kiss. The sex was passionless, perfunctory. But the orgasms brought me back from the brink of insanity I felt I’d been heading toward.
The Instructor didn’t ejaculate. When I tried to make him come, he dismissed me.
DAY 152
No talk about the sex. Business as usual.
I vow I’ll never sleep with the cold, heartless bastard ever again.
DAY 175
This was the worst day of training, and maybe the worst day of my life.
For the past week, I’ve been taught to resist interrogation. It started off harmless enough, with verbal sparring. Techniques to avoid giving away anything with body language. Psychological tests, stress tests, biofeedback while being questioned.
I was given a number. Six. I was ordered not to reveal that number if asked, no matter what.
Then I was forcibly abducted from my room while I slept—something I almost escaped from by resisting until The Instructor told me to stand down. I was stripped naked and thrown into a brightly lit, barren cell. It was cold, and a loud, piercing tone was played at random intervals. It hurt my ears, and made it impossible to sleep. I had a bucket for the bathroom. No food or water.
I wasn’t sure how long they kept me there. I stayed sane by reminding myself this was training. But after what could have been ten hours, could have been fifty, they pulled me out and strapped me to a table.
It’s called waterboarding, and according to the government it was considered an enhanced interrogation technique, not torture.
Bullshit. It’s torture.
They asked me my number. I didn’t reply. So they put a cloth over my face and poured water on it.
They kept pouring until I couldn’t hold my breath anymore. Until I had to breathe in the water.
Suddenly I was in the car with Cory again, and the water was over my head, and I was choking, dying. The sense of panic, of helplessness, of pure fear, was enough to drive me mad.
I lasted less than three minutes, then I gave up the number.
But they didn’t stop.
I wasn’t sure how long it went on. They hit me in the stomach while it was happening, to make
me gasp for air. I passed out too many times to count, drowning, possibly even dying once or twice only to be brought back so they could do it again. Finally I didn’t wake up.
The next time I opened my eyes, I was back in my bed. My stomach still aches. My throat and lungs feel like they’ve been scrubbed with steel wool.
The Instructor came in to check on me, an hour ago. He brought hot tea, some cookies.
I told him to get the fuck out or I’d kill him.
I meant it.
DAY 177
I understand why it was done to me. At some point, I may be required to interrogate someone. I needed to know what it was like.
But the waterboarding changed me. I’m harder now. Less sympathetic.
I’m also through with doing everything I’m told to do, unless I agree with it. If they ever try to grab me in my sleep again, I’ll fight to the death before I let them take me.
DAY 203
I finally understand what I’m being trained for.
Instead of the usual 25k run, I was given a file.
It includes a dossier of a man named Dalton Wick. He’s white, forty-six years old, single, a day trader. He lives in Peru, IL, in a gated community with a state-of-the-art burglar alarm.
It also includes over a dozen pictures of Wick engaged in sexual relations with a crying, hysterical five-year-old boy.
I’m ordered to kill Wick by tomorrow night. Whatever equipment I need will be provided for me.
I’ve spent all day thinking about it.
Planning it.
DAY 205
Everything went off without a hitch. I drove to Peru, bypassed his alarm, broke into his home, and shot him with a suppressed pistol while he slept.
When I got back to the compound, I thought I was okay. But during the debriefing, I began to cry, and the next thing I knew I was on top of The Instructor, tugging off his belt, pressing my lips to his.
This time I rode him so hard he had no choice but to come.
DAY 345
Long time between journal entries.
I’m an assassin now. I’ve killed four people. All of them deserved it—murderers, molesters, torturers, psychopaths. I was told I could refuse taking jobs if I wanted to. One case I passed up was a pimp named Deevon. He was an asshole who got his whores hooked on smack and regularly beat them when they didn’t obey. A true piece of human garbage, but I didn’t think he was worthy of death. So I turned it down.
Jack Kilborn & Ann Voss Peterson & J. A. Konrath Page 10