The Agency

by Shawn Oetzel

  Jackson’s death was so needless and made no sense. It was unimaginably cruel as well, but that was how the Ghost operated, one of the characteristics which made the assassin so dangerous. As a stone cold killer, the Ghost had no regard for human life.

  There was no way Reggie was going to let Sommers face that kind of monster alone, especially after seeing what the murdering bastard had done to Jackson, who was nothing more than a helpless old man.

  He plodded down the hall, his feet heavy as the weight of his decision to break protocol rested rather precariously on his massive shoulders. He was out of breath again when he reached the door, though from nervous tension this time.

  The Agency had zero tolerance for those who could not follow their guidelines. There was too much as stake to turn a blind eye to those who could not play by the rules. The one tenet above all was that once an agent was given a case, they were on their own. It was there way of maintaining the absolute secrecy the Agency held so dear.

  And here he was, intruding on an investigation not assigned to him.

  With his big meaty hand, he wiped his brow. Beads of sweat caused from stress were dripping into his eyes causing them to sting. He had not thought it would be this difficult. Then again, when Sommers was involved, nothing was ever easy. A grin spread across his mouth as he flashed on how much a pain in his backside she could be.

  “Ah, dammit, Sommers,” he said. The grin turned into a large toothy smile as he pulled the yellow crime scene tape down, wadded it into a ball, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  The door was not locked.

  He did not think any of the seasoned officers from the Washington D.C. police department would make that kind of careless mistake. It could have been someone from the coroner’s office when they had removed Jackson’s body, but this too was highly unlikely.

  His free hand reached for the reassuring presence of his Agency issue firearm. He pulled it free from its holster, and let the gun dangle casually at his side.

  There was something not right about the whole scene. The hair standing up on the back of his thick neck was proof enough of that.

  He took one cautious step into the apartment, then another, half-expecting some sort of ambush to take place at any second. His muscles tightened from the tension of having his nerves so on edge. His grip on the 9mm also tightened, and he switched the handgun’s safety to off.

  There was no obvious sign of another person. As far as he could tell, he was here alone, though every investigative fiber in his body was telling him different.

  The only way he was going to assuage those feelings was to do a room to room search. He did his best to make as little sound as possible, at which he was surprisingly adept for a man of his considerable size, as he moved into the kitchen.

  Seeing Blackburn rummaging around was the absolute last thing the Ghost had pictured after hearing the door to the apartment scrape open. He had not been sure what or who he would find, but he had been certain this was not it.

  His hatred for the man a few feet away from his hiding spot in the hallway was so intense it radiated out of every pore in his body. Blackburn represented everything he, as a powerful international player, abhorred. Blackburn had been the only man to come close to capturing him, a personal slight to his ego he could not let go unpunished.

  He wanted to kill the agent so badly he could almost taste the violence he would unleash. He’d savor it like an expensive fine wine. It was all he could do to keep himself in check and not rush out to the living room and pummel the object of his rage to death with his bare hands.

  The only thing holding him back was that he did not want Blackburn’s death to be over so fast. He wanted to make it last at least long enough to hear the man plead to be allowed to die.

  He could tell by the tension in Blackburn’s body that the agent was wary, definitely had his guard up. This was clearly evident by the gun being clenched like a security blanket in Blackburn’s pudgy hand. It would not matter, however. The imbecile could not shoot what he could not see. The Ghost could slip into the living room as quiet and ethereal as the wraith like figure he was nicknamed for, and take Blackburn by surprise; incapacitating him.

  He reached around his back and grasped the finely honed knife he kept hidden on his black leather belt. It was the same blade he had used to remove Jackson’s pinky finger and still had some of the translator’s blood dried on the blade. One quick and heavy blow from the hilt to the base of Blackburn’s skull would take the mammoth of a man off his feet and render him unconscious. Then, the fun could really begin.

  He was on the verge of making his move when a nagging thought pushed to the forefront of his brain, begging for an answer.

  “Why aren’t you in Boston?” he asked in a silent whisper.

  Like a jolt of electricity, the answer hit him. Jackson had left the message, but died before he could specify where. Blackburn had come back here for the same reason the Ghost had, to find the sword’s hiding spot.

  He wanted to laugh out loud, and would have if not for the fact it would tip Blackburn off. They had always thought alike, that was why the agent was a worthy adversary, why Blackburn had almost caught him. It was also yet another reason why he needed to be eliminated, but maybe now was not yet the time. There still might be more to this game in need of being played out.

  As he continued to watch Blackburn stumble around in the darkened living room like the bumbling fool he was, the Ghost tried to reason out the curveball this unexpected appearance had thrown him. He knew he could kill Blackburn right now without much difficulty, but something was holding him back. There was more to this story, and he would need to figure it out before he would be able to experience the happy ending he was longing for, the ending which had him standing over the lifeless corpse of one Agent Reggie Blackburn.

  If Blackburn was here, that meant someone else must be working the investigation in Boston. The pretty woman he had seen with Blackburn when he had been staking out the translator? She was obviously an agent in training, and from the way she and Blackburn had interacted, undoubtedly his protégé as well.

  If he really wanted to torture Blackburn, he would leave the man alive long enough to first witness the untimely demise of the female agent. Then he could dispose of Blackburn, take the sword, and live happily ever after.

  He smiled like a kid at Christmas morning as he watched Blackburn move into the kitchen. The stupid agent was so predictable, doing a room to room sweep of the entire apartment. This would give him enough time to leave Blackburn a message, and then exit the premises before the fool was any the wiser.

  He returned to the office. It was all he could do to stifle the gleeful laughter he felt building. Things were going far better than he could have ever hoped for.

  After clearing the kitchen, Blackburn returned to the living room. He could not shake the feeling that he was not alone. He also had the unnerving feeling he was being watched, even hunted. He tightened his grip on the 9mm. There was no way he was going down without some kind of a fight. He was anything but helpless prey.

  He made his way down the hall, stepping cautiously into a spare bedroom which looked more for show than functionality, and smelled musty from disuse. He guessed Jackson did not entertain overnight guests, or any guests for that matter, very often. Still, he had to be thorough in his search.

  As he was about to check the closet, as cliché as that was, a soft rustling from out in the hall made him freeze in his tracks. It was the sound of a light footstep walking on carpet. Reggie had to fight down the urge to go charging into the hall like some sort of superhero ready to catch the bad guy.

  He stood statue-still instead, listening to the ensuing silence and hoping to catch any other sound. When he did not hear anything else, he took a quiet step of his own toward the hallway. When he heard the next sound, that of the apartment door being shut as someone exited, he did take off at a full and heedless charge.

  Like a bull in a china shop, he
ran headlong back into the living room, banging his shin against an end table and causing the lamp stationed there to fall to the floor. Thanks to a spin move any NFL halfback would be proud of, he was able to stay on his feet, but still almost crashed into the door shoulder first. If he had, with the momentum he built up along with his massive weight, he would have taken the door off its hinges and landed flat on his face.

  Instead, he flung the door open so hard he still almost ripped it out of its frame. With his gun raised before him, ready to fire if necessary, he shoulder rolled out of the apartment and came to one knee in the corridor ready to shoot. He was agile for a big man, which made the maneuver all the more impressive.

  It was a good plan, except that the hallway outside Jackson’s apartment was completely deserted. Whoever had exited the apartment was nowhere to be found.

  The adrenaline rush of excitement intertwined with the potential for danger left him momentarily breathless. He lowered the gun, and got back to his feet, remaining on guard because this whole scenario was having a very Ghost-like feel to it. If this was the case, then things could get real messy quick.

  The elevator was still sitting on this floor from when he had ridden it up. His shin throbbed from where he had smacked it on his mad dash through the apartment. He looked toward the stairwell, but knew if the mysterious intruder had taken the stairs, by the time he could get there and check it out, the intruder would be long gone.

  The only thing that made sense was for him to return to the apartment and resume his search for any clues as to who the intruder was, and for anything that could help Sommers.

  This time, he did not bother with the rest of the apartment, but made directly for Jackson’s office. If anything helpful was to be found, it would be in there. Plus, he was positive this was where the intruder had also focused their search.

  The office was a mess from the homicide detectives and forensic team. This was not unexpected. What was out of the ordinary however was the pale glow coming from the monitor sitting on the desk. Reggie’s heart rate spiked. Whoever had been in the apartment had evidently been trying to crack into Jackson’s computer.

  He moved around to the other side of the desk to get a better look at the screen. He nearly dropped to his knees as the air in his lungs was blasted out of his chest by the shock of what he saw.

  There, written on a blank Microsoft Word document, was a message addressed to him.

  Dear Agent Blackburn:

  It has been fun watching you creep around this apartment. Though, I do hesitate to use the word “creep” as someone with an ass as large as yours cannot truly “creep” anywhere. Anyway, I wanted to let you know I was around. It would be rude of me not to say hello to an old friend like you, after all.

  By the way, don’t waste your time looking for the document’s translation. I already have it, and will be arriving shortly to collect Excalibur. I thought it would only be sporting of me to give you fair warning however, that I intend on paying your pretty little female friend a visit and showing her my special attention before I complete my business here. That is, unless you can stop me.

  See you in Boston.

  Sincerely,

  The Ghost

  For the second time in a matter of minutes, Reggie charged back through the apartment and out the door.

  If he played his cards right, he should be able to make it to Boston by early morning. He was not an overly religious man, but he prayed out loud that it would not be too late.

  Sitting in yet another dingy little diner much like the one from which he’d first spotted Blackburn and his pretty little pet, sipping an even worse cup of coffee, if such a thing was even possible, the Ghost watched with cruel humor as Blackburn came bursting out of the apartment complex. He laughed loudly as the fat agent literally sprinted to his car.

  The other patrons could only stare uncomfortably at the strange visitor. None of them had the nerve to ask what was so funny, for fear of actually finding out. He ignored them like the worthless peons they were.

  He finished his cup of coffee, tossed some money on the table, and left without really paying much attention to the way the other diners turned their heads away from him as he walked by.

  He had more important details to attend to.

  He too was in a hurry. He only had an hour to catch his flight. It would seem he’d indeed be flying out of this poor excuse for a Nation’s Capitol after all, except instead of New York, he would be touching down in Boston.

  —Chapter 18

  She relaxed on the beach, squishing the cool moist sand between her toes. The light breeze felt good against her face. So did the cool spray from the ocean. The familiar scent of the sea made her feel as safe as if she was snuggled up in her favorite down comforter. It made her feel at peace, like she was home.

  The sun was just starting its journey across the sky to where it would inevitably set in a magnificent array of orange and crimson. At the moment, however, the sunshine sparkled like precious gems on the large expanse of blue ocean which stretched all the way to the horizon.

  Thinking she would take a quick swim before the sun went down, she stood up, brushing the sand off her lap with both hands. She had to pause and take in a deep breath, so moved by how perfect the moment was. She was on the verge of jogging across the beach and down to the water so she could jump into the welcoming embrace of the ocean, could almost feel the cool water running across her bare skin, when the scene was disrupted by the obnoxious chirping of the bedside alarm.

  Amy Sommers rolled over on her side so she was facing the evil device, which had ripped her away from the pleasantness of the dream, and forced her back to consciousness here in the cold reality of her hotel room. After a few seconds of the maddening alarm echoing through her sleep deprived mind, she had had enough.

  She slammed her hand down on the digital clock with its bright red numbers, which seemed to be mocking her as they let her know it was 6:30am. The force not only shut the buzzing alarm off, but also knocking the clock completely off its perch on the nightstand. It landed with a crunching thud on the floor. All she cared about was that it had finally stopped the incessant noise.

  She sat up and shifted her feet out from beneath the blankets and onto the floor. Exhaustion had completely taken over her body, and she felt like she had barely slept a wink. Her muscles ached like she had just gone three rounds in the UFC with “The Iceman” Chuck Liddell. She knew from experience the only cure was to get up, move around, and consume as much coffee as was humanly possible.

  “God, I hate mornings,” she said, leaning over and putting her elbows on her knees so she could rub the sleep out of her eyes before attempting to stand up. It was moments like this she missed being the second shift homicide detective back with the LAPD, where going into work early meant not stopping for lunch first.

  As punctual as Ambrosius had shown himself to be, she knew if she did not hurry and get a move on, the British agent would undoubtedly show up at her room wondering what was taking her so long. Then he would look at her in the perturbed manner she had seen him use on more than one occasion already in the short time they had been working together. She had no desire to be made to feel like a rank amateur by the uptight agent this early in the morning. It would not set a good tone for the rest of the day.

  With that in mind, she went directly to the shower, where she let the hot water ease some of the tension out of her body. The steady stream of steaming water massaged the knots out of her muscles, especially in her shoulders and upper back, allowing her to finally stand erect. It felt so good, if she’d had more time, she would have spent the entire morning in there. As it was, she rinsed herself off as quickly as possible and went back to the dresser where her luggage still sat from the night before. She had been so tired she had not even bothered to unpack.

  Representatives of the Agency or law enforcement specialists in general were supposed to look the part of being a professional. She just was not feeling it today, an
d decided on comfort instead of style. She was trying to locate a mythical sword and avoid an assassin, not walk the runway of a fashion show in Milan. She slipped on a regular pair of blue jeans with a white long sleeved turtle neck shirt. Knowing the weather was likely not to improve, and more snow was probably on the way, she pulled on her black boots. Lastly, she slipped into a black blazer, which covered and hid her shoulder holster nicely.

  She spent the next fifteen minutes fixing her hair and make-up, never spending all that long fine tuning herself for the outside world’s viewing pleasure. It was hard enough to be taken seriously in the law enforcement field simply being a woman, but if you looked like a dainty super model, you had no chance of being accepted. Instead of being treated like a cop, you became the object of desire, and that was the kiss of death. If you were perceived as weak or helpless, then you immediately became a liability. She was not weak or helpless; a point she had proven time and time again.

  A quick glance at the clock, still lying on the floor where she had swatted it to, told her she was ahead of schedule. She still had a half an hour before she was supposed to meet Ambrosius.

  She thought about calling Reggie, even though she was still angry. Her cell phone was sitting on the dresser next to her suitcase where she had tossed it before going to bed. She wanted to talk to him, but halfway across the room, she talked herself out of calling. As much as she wanted to forgive the big idiot, her pride and sense of duty would not let her. This was her case. She worked hard to earn it, and he was out of line with his over protective big brother stunt. Still, she would have liked to bounce a few ideas off him.

  As it turned out, the decision was made for her. When she picked the phone up, and flipped it open to see if she had any messages, the screen was dark. The battery had gone dead, and she had forgotten to plug it into the charger. Now she would be stuck without a phone for most of the rest of the day.