The Fixer, Season 1

by Rex Carpenter

  “Is that why you were getting all those spent uranium rounds?” JC continued. “Figure you could use them to give her cancer? Make her suffer for what she did?”

  “Is he correct, Special Agent Kowalski?”

  Kowalski was shaking his head. “It was beautiful,” he said with a smile. “It worked far better than I imagined. She was riddled with it.” Laughed. “Her oncologist told me the truth, hoping I’d pass it on to her husband. She only had a few months left to live.” His smile turned to a grimace. “But then she went the coward’s route. Contracted with you to end her misery.”

  “Pissed you off something fierce, didn’t it son?” The General said, keeping him going.

  “You’re damn right it did!” he yelled. Stood. Started moving around the room more. Gesticulating more. “Right when I’m about to see everything played out just like I’d been planning for years, she goes and calls Bannister.” JC’s name was spat out like a filthy curse word. “Says, ‘Please save me! End my suffering!’ What a coward, right up to the end.”

  “Is that why you shot her yourself?” JC said.

  “No, no, no,” Kowalski said, pulling himself back from the ledge of confession. “No, JC, you’re the one who shot her. Your fingerprints are on the sniper rifle, remember? Nice trick you pulled with those redneck simpletons out in the desert. Patriots. Ha! I’m the true patriot.”

  “For killing a senator?” The General said.

  “For eliminating a traitor to the good men and women in uniform!” Kowalski ranted. “She was an embarrassment to these glorious United States, as you said. Well, now the ship is righted a bit more.” Shook his head. “Like I said. She deserved to die.”

  The General stood. Put his hands in his pocket. “No, son, she didn’t. Every man in this room deserves to die for the things we’ve done. But not Catherine Marcus. She was a good woman, a patriot and an honor to this country.”

  “Well,” Kowalski said, “I’m glad we agree on one thing.” Looked at JC. “Some people in this room deserve to die.”

  JC had seen it before. Some person goes off their rocker, cooks up some psychotic murderous plan. Then, when things go awry, slate the person who ruined their scheme for death. Often that was about the time the person slated for death called in a specialist. A solutionist. Rarely did the one who was planning on the killing have much time to target JC. They were usually dead before they were aware of his involvement.

  He was doing everything he could to bring the same fate to Kowalski in this room.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, boy,” The General was saying. “JC Bannister is one of the finest men I ever had the privilege to command. His father was my best friend and a finer soldier I couldn’t imagine. Until his son came under my wing. You would do well to make your peace with him. Tonight.”

  “If he was such a fine soldier, then why was he bounced out of the service? What was it he said to you? Go fu—”

  “I remember what he said,” The General replied tersely, cutting Kowalski off. “I remember why he said it and I remember every damn thing about that whole situation. I’m not that old yet.” Started walking for the door. “What I remember most is the regret. Bannister was right. I was wrong. Had I the wisdom to see it at that time, then perhaps we wouldn’t all be here tonight.”

  The General stood at the door. Looked at JC. Turned to Kowalski. “I can see in Bannister’s eyes his path is unchanged. I’m guessing yours is too?” Kowalski nodded. “Very well, then. If either one of you makes it out of here alive, give me a call. I imagine you’ll need more than a little help setting things straight.”

  The man turned, opened the door and left.

  Kowalski was standing by the door to the bedroom when the door closed behind The General. JC was still over by the white leather and chrome sofa.

  “Well,” Kowalski said, “Now that Dad’s gone…” as he reached slowly into his suit jacket. JC started moving towards him. There was no time to reach him, but he still wanted to close the gap as much as possible.

  As soon as JC moved, Kowalski’s actions sped up. He pulled out a Glock 23. Silencer attached to the barrel.

  JC stopped.

  “That’s not government issue.”

  “No, no it’s not,” Kowalski said, aiming it at JC. “But I’ve learned that to go toe-to-toe with you, I need to look a bit beyond what the government taught me.”

  “So that’s it? You’re just going to shoot me? Like a cowardly little bitch?”

  JC didn’t think Kowalski would. But he figured it was better to taunt and ridicule the idea out of him before it got that far. It backfired.

  “Hey, that’s a good idea.” Kowalski fired the gun once. The silencer turned the boom of the gunshot into a loud clapping sound as the subsonic round hurtled towards JC. He tried to move out of the way, diving for the floor, but nobody can move that fast. His movement probably spared his life, though. The bullet cut through his suit jacket, tore through his shoulder muscle and thudded into the wall behind JC. It hurt. It was deeper than a flesh wound. The bullet wasn’t still inside his arm, which would help. No bones were hit. But the damage it caused would hamper things in the upcoming fight.

  JC rolled behind a love seat, the matching piece to the white leather and chrome sofa. Tipped it over and pulled it in front of himself. It would provide precious little in terms of actual protection. But it felt better than just sitting on the floor.

  “You stay there for a second, JC. I’ve got a little surprise for you in the bedroom.”

  Kowalski backed up even more, opened the bedroom door and went inside. JC could hear the sounds of a struggle inside. He had a pretty good guess what was waiting in the bedroom. But who knew. Maybe it was a flame thrower. Or a rocket launcher.

  Please don’t let it be a rocket launcher, JC prayed quietly to himself, hunched down behind the upended love seat.

  It wasn’t a rocket launcher.

  Chapter 72

  I Can Live With It

  JC heard the dragging sound before he saw what was causing it. He looked over the edge of the upended loveseat to see Kowalski, back towards him, dragging a chair with his right hand. The silenced pistol was in his left hand. Not ideal, but Kowalski was unlikely to be as good of a shot with his left hand as he was to with his right. If there was a time to make a move, then the time was now.

  As JC’s body tensed for the lunge over the sofa and towards Kowalski, he saw what was in the chair. Or, to be specific, whom.

  Joan’s arms were handcuffed behind her, the cuffs interlacing between the uprights of the chair, preventing her from simply standing up. She was wearing a gray skirt and white sleeveless blouse. The matching gray jacket was gone, as were her low black heels. Her hair, pulled back in a ponytail the last time JC saw her, was loose and disheveled. Sweaty. As Kowalski turned the chair around, JC saw her face.

  Beaten was too soft of a word for what had happened to her. Her left eye was nearly swollen shut. Her right eye was blackened and bruises covered her right cheek. There were cuts in various places across her face. Mouth was swollen as well. Some kind of fabric was tied around her mouth as a gag. Kowalski had worked her over.

  JC stood. Grabbed the end of the loveseat with his left hand and fairly threw it against the door, moving it out of his way. As it banged to the floor, Kowalski raised his gun, pointing it at JC.

  “Hold on there, cowboy.” Stepped behind Joan. “You sure you want to be making any sudden movements? I mean, you may be able to make it over here. Maybe I’ll only have time to pull off a couple of gunshots. But are you sure that I’ll be shooting at you the whole time?”

  Joan’s response was muffled by the swelling of her mouth. And the gag. While JC couldn’t quite make out the first word, he was pretty sure the second one was “you” which made figuring out the first much easier.

  Kowalski hadn’t moved his gun away from JC’s direction. He didn’t need to. JC knew he could kill Joan in under a second. Not enough time. He needed a dif
ferent approach. He looked at Joan. Examined her eyes. They were burning with hate.

  “Joan?” he said. The remaining questions unspoken. Are you okay? Do you wish to proceed as planned?

  Joan nodded slightly. JC needed to be clear.

  “Are you okay?”

  Joan’s answer was spoken around the gag. Three words. The first two, while muddled, were clearly “kill” and “this.” The third was more muffled, or perhaps more difficult to pronounce with a gag in place, but the first part sounded like “mother.” JC again guessed about the second part.

  “Enough,” Kowalski said. Stepped to the side of Joan. “Here’s what’s going to happen. I’ve already killed your goofy friend Duke. Died like a punk, pleading for his life. I’m sure you’ve seen the footage. Unfortunate timing. But.” Shrugged. “First, I’m going to kill you, JC, while your little girlfriend here watches. Then I’m going to kill her. A little more… slowly. Then I’m going to set everything up to make it look like a murder suicide. Lover’s spat, falling out amongst killers, whatever. The press will eat it up.”

  JC needed to get him distracted. Get him away from Joan. Just a bit. Get his attention diverted long enough and then maybe, just maybe everything might work out.

  That’s it. The biggest mystery in the room.

  “Let me ask you something, Guy. When you were investigating our team for Senator Marcus, what did you find on Joan? What information were you able to track down about her?”

  “Her file was a little…thin.”

  Thin was an understatement.

  “Thin?” JC said. “If I remember correctly, there was at most one page, depending on which agency you got it from.”

  JC slowed his words just a little, slowing down his speaking cadence in the process. Tried to make his voice like a song, forcing his intonation to rise and fall ever so slightly. He was trying to pull Kowalski in to what he was saying. Trying to lull him into getting his guard down. If he could get him interested in the unknown story of Joan, perhaps he could get him distracted away from her. Let her work. Give them time for their plan to work.

  “There’s a good reason for that, you see,” he continued. “Joan left home at fifteen. Wandered around Europe. Changed her name half a dozen times. Started hanging around the wrong kind of people. One thing led to another and she was left holding the bag when a group of her friends got involved in an armed robbery. Unfortunately, the bag had only a couple of hundred Deutsche Marks. But it also had several guns.”

  JC was taking slow steps forward. Using his hands to tell the story as much as his face, body and voice. Kowalski was intrigued. He started moving slightly forward as well.

  “She got her revenge on her friends. Killed them all. It felt good and she got away clean. Spotless work. Changed her name to Joan and then she started her education. Joined up with the IRA. Stayed there for about eight months, learned all she could and then moved on.”

  Joan’s muffled “shut up!” surprised JC. But it didn’t draw Kowalski out of the story. In fact, it took him deeper in. Presented with the possibility of losing information that could prove important to him later, Kowalski turned and ordered Joan to shut her mouth. Then turned back to JC. Kowalski was standing in front of Joan now. Giving her the time she needed to get free.

  JC had the agent right where he wanted him.

  “She spent the next seven years or so traveling around Europe, Asia, and South America joining one group after another, learning everything she could. Joined up with Basque separatists to learn knife fighting. Perfected that in the Philippines with some smugglers. Rode with some Gypsy thieves for a while to learn pickpocketing and the art of hiding anything she wanted to. Terrorists in Peru, drug smugglers in the Netherlands, human smugglers out of Kazakhstan. She even joined the Red Army in China at one point, so I guess it’s not actually true that she never served in any army.” JC smiled. Kowalski mirrored the smile. Hook, line and sinker.

  Joan was working quietly and quickly behind Kowalski. One clink of the handcuffs, one scrape of metal against the chair and they were all done for.

  “She never stayed with any group for very long. Longest was a counterfeiting ring in Berlin. Stayed there for three years, doing their wet work for them for free while they taught her how to make her own documents. That’s where she met me. They sent her to kill me because I was getting too close to their organization. I was doing security for a large multinational back then, trying to track down the people counterfeiting their high priority access badges. I had gotten too close to them and they wanted me gone. Joan tracked me down, pulled a gun on me. I told her I was only after the people making the extremely high quality security badges. She pointed the gun right at my head, and you know what she said?”

  Kowalski was almost leaning forward, hanging on JC’s every word.

  “What?” he said.

  “Badges?” Joan whispered as she laid the edge of her double edged push dagger against Kowalski’s neck. “We don’t need no stinking badges,” she said, finishing the punchline, her breath hot on Kowalski’s ear.

  Kowalski froze. The tip of the silenced pistol, aimed at the floor, raised a hair. Joan pushed the blade’s edge against his throat even more. “It’s not the pressure so much as the movement,” she said. “I can push this knife really hard against your neck and it won’t draw much blood. But with all this pressure, just a fraction of lateral motion and it’ll slice right through.”

  Kowalski didn’t move a muscle. Murmured “Uh-huh.”

  “Good, you understand,” Joan said. “Now, lift the gun, barrel down, with your thumb and forefinger.” He did. Joan took it from him without removing the knife from his skin. “I’m going to step away slowly. I say ‘when’ and you turn around to me.” Paused. “Understand?”

  Kowalski whispered a desperate “Yes.”

  Joan backed up two steps. Knife held in her right hand, gun in the left. “When,” she said. Kowalski turned to her. Despair ran across his face like tire marks. Defeated. Joan’s mouth was set in a vicious grimace. She palmed the pistol in her hand stepped forward and smashed him across the face. Again. Guy stood for the first, but the second dropped him to one knee. Joan stepped past him towards JC, slicing Kowalski’s shoulder near to the bone with her push dagger as she went.

  He clutched at the wound, a groan of pain escaping him. Stood. Blood ran between his fingers and down his arm.

  Joan walked up to JC. Kissed him on the cheek. Held up the bloody knife. “Figured I’d make it a little more fair. Now both of you are injured.”

  “Thanks,” JC said dryly. “Couldn’t you just shoot him and be done with it?”

  Joan smiled. “Now,” she said playfully, “you have a promise to keep.” Turned and walked back to the bedroom. Giving the seething Kowalski a wide berth. “I’ll be in the bedroom cleaning up. Please be done by the time I’m finished.”

  Joan walked into the bedroom with Kowalski’s gun still in her hand. Closed the door behind her.

  JC’s eyes went from the bedroom door to Kowalski. The agent was breathing harder, the hatred and shame and adrenaline all coursing together through his body. Kowalski’s shoulders were rising and falling as his chest heaved, pumping oxygen in to feed the rage and expelling it out to purge the embarrassment.

  “That’s twice she’s gotten the drop on you,” JC said. Wanting to get Kowalski past thinking. Into pure mindless action. “Can’t believe you fell for the stinking badges routine. Didn’t you get into MIT? Oh, that’s right. Joined the Army instead. How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

  “Nice move with those wackos in the Nevada desert. Collaborating with international terrorists? One more nail in your coffin.” Kowalski was trying to move to the side, jockeying for the best position.

  “Yeah, you never saw that coming, did you? Not surprised, considering your pay grade.”

  “Just like Duke never saw the bullets coming. You know he closed his eyes like a coward right at the end?”

  JC realized
his chest was heaving almost as much as Kowalski’s. He loosened his tie. Tried to slow his emotions while his mind was running through all the things that Kowalski had done. Caused his old friend Senator Catherine Marcus to contract cancer, then shot her in the head. Sent a Bolivian hit squad after him. Endangered his cousin’s life and that of his family when he burned down his cousin’s garage. Tried to arrange the killing of dozens of innocents in the bleak but beautiful Nevada desert. Set up JC’s team for said murders. Lied to have him sent to jail. Campbell, Kowalski’s proxy, planned to have him beaten and possibly killed inside the L.A. County Jail.

  Beat Joan all to hell.

  “I made you a promise before,” JC said. “You remember?”

  “Blabbity blah blah is all I remember from your big mouth.”

  “I promised you I was going to beat you to death.”

  “Yeah, well, I told you I was going to kill you and then that bitch behind that door. Just like I did to your stupid friend Duke.”

  JC’s grin started at the right side of his mouth and stretched across his face. Ear-to-ear, just like Duke’s. “Oh, that.” Paused. Started to move around Kowalski, jockey for position just as his adversary had. “Duke’s alive.” His grin spread even more as confusion spread over Kowalski’s face. “Yeah. Bulletproof vest. Bag of fake blood under the shirt, blood capsule in the mouth. Hollywood, baby.” Smile threatened to split his face as Kowalski’s anger finally consumed him. “Theo was the EMT. We saw it coming a mile away. You can’t even kill an unarmed man right. You’re so predictable, Guy.”

  Kowalski’s roar came from somewhere deep in his belly. Everything came out with it. It barely registered with JC. Hate and rage was causing blood to pound in his ears. His lust for vengeance and blood was near consuming him. The difference between JC and Kowalski was simple: JC was a killer. A professional who had learned to control himself, even in the throes of rage. He’d killed in cold blood. Murdered for money. Set bombs, shot down strangers, slit the throats of people who had never harmed him, all to achieve his target. Although he had spent the last seven years trying to put all that behind him, traces of it were still burned onto his psyche. Traces of it still ran through his heart. And when he needed to put aside moral questions, issues of fairness and justice, he could. He could set aside everything, pick up one of those remaining traces and revel in the killing of a person who needed to die.