Will nodded, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Thanks, Lance. Let’s go.”
Maynard led three other heavily armed men into the elevator shaft. As ex-military, the men weren’t subject to the new statewide ban on all firearms for private citizens, and through them Will would enjoy a level of protection not available to most citizens. His first business had generated sufficient income and wealth to afford such protections—and, ironically, it made such protection necessary. Will would have preferred to live his life as any other young man heading off to his job each day. Comments directed at him during his commutes suggested his safety was at risk from those interested in robbing him or doing him harm. As the general economy worsened and the taunts become more frequent and vitriolic, Will had finally lost his nerve and taken action. He’d hired Maynard’s team of personal security specialists. Today, that decision had resulted in Maynard fitting Will with a bullet-proof vest he was to wear in public at all times.
So much for normalcy.
Will’s story had become the stuff of legend. Penniless and orphaned at sixteen, he’d lived with guardians the next two years before setting out on his own. He’d worked overnight and weekend shifts, scraping together enough money each month to pay rent on a tiny apartment, subsisting on the most basic of foods. In those difficult times, he’d hit upon his business idea, a company that would use information technology to bring the costs of medical care down dramatically without sacrificing quality. Investors had considered his ideas impossible to implement, with no hope of ever achieving profitability. But Will had persisted, and one kindly man had gifted him a small bit of money, with no requirement that he ever be paid back. It wasn’t much, but Will made it work. That man’s investment in Will had paid huge dividends, and Will had seen his net worth top one billion dollars just before his twenty-first birthday. He’d offered stock to his investor, but the man had refused.
Will made it a point now to follow that man’s example with his own newfound wealth.
His company employed hundreds, and hundreds more had jobs due to his “cash infusions” to passionate entrepreneurs. Many of those entrepreneurs had insisted on giving Will an ownership stake in the form of stock after his investments helped those new companies achieve profitability, and Will had accepted those gifts. He’d made it a point to never accept such offerings before those companies became profitable, because he knew from his own experience that those businesses needed time to develop without having to worry about paying dividends to people like Will who didn’t need the money. Will now earned as much from the dividends from those unrequested gifts of stock in the companies he’d funded as he did from his own business. The costs of medical care, which had been doubling every five years, were experiencing the first reduction in the rate of growth in decades. With enough time, the technology would bring significant reductions in actual costs, not just in the rate of growth.
His company had accomplished a great deal, but it wasn’t enough, though. Not yet. The long running recession and economic stagnation was deeper than he’d feared even three years earlier. Economists were now predicting as many as thirty years of economic depression, claims simultaneously derided by those politicians in power and seized upon by those seeking to supplant the majority. Will feared they were arguing for the right to drive a ship into an iceberg. His only hope was that his company and the investments he’d been making could limit the damage, and plant the seeds that would grow and help restart the economy after the inevitable slowdown began in earnest.
Many seemed to appreciate his efforts; several popular Internet blogs asked why there weren’t more people like Will Stark, men and women using their own success to lead others to similar outcomes. Those same blogs, though, were filled with the comments of people who expressed their disdain for Will Stark. He shouldn’t charge for his services. He should give more away, especially to causes dear to the hearts of those posting. His successes were nothing more than self-aggrandizement, his investments performed for pure publicity. Will Stark was a menace who needed to be stopped.
Permanently.
Will had found Lance Maynard’s company and had been impressed with the experience he and his team brought. Will wanted to hire a firm permitted to use firearms in his defense, not because he wanted anyone shot, but because he thought an armed security team might be a deterrent to those wishing to permanently silence him. According to the laws of the state and his home town, no one save his security team should have a gun, yet armed robberies were on the rise. The sight of the weapons the men openly carried gave him a calm that was worth every cent he paid them.
●●●
Michael checked the calendar once more. According to the memory videos, this was the day on which the first assassination attempt on Will Stark would take place. In reliving the memory of this day, Will noted that he been stunned he’d survived the attack, as if some unseen force had saved him. That memory had prompted knowing looks all around.
The Alliance would be present at the scene of the attack, and would need to intervene to ensure Will’s survival.
Michael led the team responsible for ensuring that Young Will survived the assassination attempt that would take place this day, providing a hidden complement to Lance Maynard’s human security team. Michael had two advantages over Maynard’s team: Energy and advance knowledge of the nature of the attack. Michael was hampered by the fact that no part of what he was about to do could look, to an objective observer, like some type of divine intervention. His efforts would prove only partially successful, for though he’d survived, Will referred to this event in the same hushed tones reserved for the accident that claimed his parents’ lives.
He tapped on the microphone on the aircraft’s control panel. “Do you have him in range, Shadow?”
Hope’s face appeared on a corner of the screen now dominated by an image of Will Stark’s surroundings. “I do, Michael.” They’d agreed to avoid using Hope’s name in the event any Aliomenti happened by; the less they gave away about the true identity of this man and his future wife, the better.
“In Will’s memory, the attack happened when he was about five steps from the limousine,” Michael reported. He touched a spot on the screen, and a faint impression was left behind, visible on Hope’s screen as well. “Roughly there. We need to ensure that our protections are in place before he reaches that spot.”
Hope nodded, a gesture visible on Michael’s screen. She’d have responsibility for shielding Will from the upcoming onslaught of bullets; Michael would ensure that those responsible for the attack would struggle to escape before being gunned down by the surviving members of Will’s human security detail. “I’ve enhanced the vest he’s wearing; anything that hits that vest will bounce off him. How do we make sure the bullets only hit the vest, though? We can’t have people saying they saw bullets bounce off his face. That’s what worries me. They won’t all aim at his chest. How do we redirect bullets without being obvious?”
Michael sighed. “I’ll figure it out. Somehow.” Four gunmen would spring out of the shadows, opening fire at Will. Three of Maynard’s men would die, and Maynard himself would suffer minor wounds. Will, protected by his security team, would suffer a broken rib and minor scrapes, but would be otherwise unharmed.
Michael would adjust the aim of the four gunmen, adjusting the trajectories of their weapons at the source to ensure the bullets hit the bullet-proof vest. Hope had him protected as well, and would ensure Will suffered nothing more than superficial damage from the bullets. They suspected that plan would keep Will alive from the four assassins, while maintaining their secrecy. But there was a problem.
Neither Michael nor Hope was sure how they’d maintain those defenses and deal with the fifth gunman.
●●●
The security team led the way out of the office building. Maynard looked around, weapon held in a posture of calm alertness. Will stepped out after two more men followed Maynard, blinking in the bright sunlight. He held a hand up to
shield his eyes. The fourth guard followed Will. Will should have felt safe and secure, despite the verbal threats that had never manifested as anything more than mere words. He was surrounded by an efficient fighting team, men prepared to sacrifice their lives on his behalf, men who would ensure something as simple as walking to his limousine was uneventful.
But he felt anything but safe and secure.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt like he was being watched, and the sensation crept down his spine. A bead of sweat dribbled down his back, generated only in part by the heat the vest kept inside his body. It was paranoia, no doubt, triggered by the fact that he was now constantly thinking about the possibility of an attack.
He shook his head. The paranoia was going to consume him. He had to live his life, not give in to the fear.
Maynard moved to the door of the limousine and opened it.
Will’s mind barely registered the sight of the gun barrel aimed directly at his face before the shot was fired.
●●●
“Gun!” Hope screamed. She focused on Will’s face, slathering it with Energy, protecting it from the close-range impact of the bullet. It was too late to adjust the aim of the gun emerging from the limo or alter the trajectory of the projectile.
“Watch out for the others!” Michael shouted. He unleashed additional tongues of Energy at the three additional gunmen who emerged from shadows of the building, behind the security detail and Will, just as those men opened fire on Maynard’s team.
●●●
The explosion as the gun fired was the loudest sound Will had ever heard. At such close range, it was louder even than the crash that had killed his parents. The bright light blinded him, and he felt himself knocked backward, falling toward the ground as other flashes of light and explosions erupted around him. The pain was intense, an aching sensation centered near his ribs.
Was this what death felt like? A bright, blinding light, a tremendous amount of pain, and a sensation of falling backward?
His head hit the concrete and he lost consciousness.
●●●
The three assassins nearest the building trained their weapons on the security team and opened fire as the first gunman emerged from the limousine and fired at Will from point-blank range. The close-range shot knocked Stark to the ground, and the remaining bullets tore into the bodies of the three guards working for Lance Maynard. The men fell to the ground, screaming in pain, their blood reddening the concrete sidewalk. The smell of copper and gunpowder filled the air.
The assassins adjusted their sights as they stalked the survivors, aiming at the young billionaire lying on the ground, and pulled their triggers again.
This time, the guns jammed.
Maynard had been knocked to the side and to the ground by the opening door, and thus had been spared the onslaught of bullets. Now, with his ever-present calm, he rose to a knee and fired his weapon with brutal efficiency upon the four assassins. Within seconds, all four attackers lay dead on the ground, joining the three members of Maynard’s team.
It was only then, only after seven men died, only after the explosive and rapid discharge of bullets, that Maynard heard the screams around him. Pedestrians and passers-by had nearly been caught in the crossfire, and were terrified that more was to come. All eyed his weapon and fearsome gaze in horror.
Maynard ignored their terror, instead holding his weapon at the ready, turning quickly around, searching, alert to any indication that a secondary force sheltered in the shadows, prepared to ambush any survivors of the first attack. He saw nothing. Finally satisfied the threat had been neutralized, Maynard flipped the safety on and holstered his gun.
Only then did the pain hit Maynard. The door he’d opened had exploded into him, kicked into him by the gunman inside the limousine just before the assassin opened fire. That had hurt. The blood and stinging pain in his shoulder indicated he’d been struck by at least one of the bullets. The fall to the ground had been awkward, and he’d severely twisted his knee, possibly damaging ligaments. Gritting his teeth, Maynard limped toward Will, expecting the worst. The gun had been pointed directly at his client’s face. Will was most certainly dead, his head splattered on the concrete.
But Will’s face was intact. He was breathing steadily. Maynard winced as he lowered himself to the ground next to his client and checked Will’s pulse. Slightly elevated, indicative of the shock he’d experienced, but otherwise fine. His skin showed only minor scratches from the fall to the concrete.
Maynard stared at the man. He’d seen the gun aimed directly at Will’s face. The attackers were well-trained, professional. There was no possibility that the shooter had missed his target—Will’s face—at point-blank range.
Yet he had missed.
Maynard touched Will’s face. There was nothing there but skin; his finger left a faint discoloration on the man’s cheek. No bulletproof material protected the man’s face. He glanced down at Will’s shirt, spotting the tear in the clothing. Somehow, in a manner Lance Maynard couldn’t explain, the bullet intended for Will Stark’s face had instead hit him in the chest, striking the bulletproof vest Maynard himself had helped the man don only minutes earlier.
He lowered his face into the ground so that no one could see the scowl on his face, couldn’t see the anguish of the betrayal he himself had suffered after accepting the huge contract to arrange the death of Will Stark.
Someone had sold out Lance Maynard, after Lance had sold out Will Stark.
He’d been approached by the mysterious stranger not long after Stark hired his team. The fee offered had been enormous, impossibly large, and Maynard had doubted the sincerity. But the man explained who he worked for, in a circuitous manner, and Maynard had realized that the group had both the means and the motive to offer Stark’s own security chief the amount necessary to turn him. Maynard felt no emotional attachment toward Will Stark. Will was another person with the means to pay Maynard’s extraordinary fees, and Maynard carried out his contracted duties. Emotional attachments were to be avoided; they led you to make mistakes, mistakes that would cost clients their lives and, more importantly, Maynard his reputation. Emotional attachment would lead him to feel a sense of loyalty, and loyalty might cause him to decline generous counteroffers that came with a none-too-subtle hint that Maynard was expected to accept… or else.
With this hit and associated payment for its successful completion, his professional reputation would no longer matter. He’d not have to worry about emotional attachments to clients like Will Stark. Maynard would be able to retire to a life of luxury he’d never before imagined possible. He’d accepted their offer. One third of the money had arrived as promised. Maynard used it to hire his hit squad. He’d play his role, and even convince Stark to wear a bulletproof vest, as the team had been instructed to aim for vulnerable regions where the vest offered no protection. He fed the hit team information on Stark’s schedule that day, where the limo would be parked, where they could lurk until the attack commenced.
Something had gone wrong, though. Very, very wrong.
The plan was straightforward. The hit team would intercept the limousine, execute the driver, and park in front of the office building. One man would remain inside the vehicle, in the rear cabin where Will Stark normally sat. The others would exit the vehicle for the seclusion of various nooks and alleys near the office building. Maynard would lead the security team from the building to the limousine and open the door for Stark. The man inside would eliminate Stark with a head shot. The three in hiding would then emerge and shoot the remaining bodyguards. Maynard, defended by the open door, would fire a few errant shots at the assassins before the shooter in the limousine would shoot Maynard in the leg. The assailants, their faces masked, would flee. Police would find untraceable ammunition casings on the crime scene. Maynard, the lone survivor, would be exonerated. He’d receive his medical treatment, attend Stark’s funeral, shed a few tears, and then depart for his new life of luxury
in a tropical paradise.
But the man in the limousine had missed.
Somehow, an expert marksman had missed a man standing only two feet away. Somehow, guns maintained in prime condition by firearms experts and sharpshooters had jammed after firing only one round each. One of those bullets had even hit Maynard rather than one of the guards.
There were too many witnesses at that point. If Maynard did nothing, suspicion would—correctly—fall upon him. If he didn’t shoot back when the attackers’ guns jammed, his reputation would be shattered. And with his failure to complete the hit “requested” by the powerful group, he’d need to find new work. It meant one of the men he’d hired had sold him out, betraying the betrayer. Maynard made his decision in an instant, and had eliminated each of his co-conspirators, playing the hero in the eyes of the terrified crowds, taking out the men who’d tried to kill Will Stark.
There was no other way to explain the failure of their plan.
He wouldn’t be getting his additional money, now; that much was certain. He fully expected to receive a visit demanding repayment of the initial amount in exchange for his life.
In fact… the man who’d approached him, the man who’d offered the small fortune to eliminate Will Stark… he could easily have paid off the hit squad as well. Take out all of them. Including Maynard. No loose ends. No cash outlay for successful completion of the mission.
That was the danger of this game. You could never trust anyone willing to be bribed… or to resort to extortion.
He glanced up at the crowd that gathered nearby, who were gasping at the site of the dead men. More than one person looked nauseous at the sight of the carnage, and the smell of vomit mixed with the tangy scent of blood pooling on the sidewalk.
Preserving Will Page 10