by Adam Hiatt
What was he doing here?
There, standing off to his left was Jaxon. He looked mortified. Reddic noticed that he clung on to an object in his hand. What was it, a tire iron? Jaxon grasped it tightly, looking like he was about to use it as a weapon. His body was abnormally stiff and his eyes never left the fallen assassin.
The taciturn murderer lifted himself to one knee. He raised his head and moved his eyes from side to side. The resemblance between this man and the others that Reddic confronted was uncanny. That they were all of Arabic descent was one thing, but that they appeared to be so determined to eradicate them was another.
Reddic saw a gun lying on the concrete a few feet behind the hired killer. It must have flown out of his hand.
“Stop moving,” Jaxon commanded.
The assassin carefully placed his hands in front of his body in an attempt to show that he was harmless. Reddic was familiar with this tactic. He would have used it too if he were in that situation. The idea was to pacify the aggressor until he relaxed and believed he had control of the captive. That was where mistakes were usually made. Antagonistic behavior was often unpredictably violent. Even the slightest of flinches could set off a brutal reaction. But if the aggressor’s nerves were mitigated then his reaction time greatly decreased, leaving him exposed to a potentially lethal counterattack.
“Jaxon, you’re too close to him. Back away,” Reddic said calmly. “Did you hear me? Step back.”
Jaxon didn’t move. He looked captivated. Reddic thought he saw a grin form on the assassin’s mouth.
Reddic began to step forward when the assassin suddenly reached for his belt. Reddic immediately knew what he was after; a second gun; his gun. The killer had confiscated and stuffed it in his waistband only minutes ago.
“Jaxon, watch out!” Reddic bellowed.
The assassin found the weapon and was drawing it out. Reddic felt incredibly defenseless and vulnerable. He had nothing that he could use as a weapon. If he were in Jaxon’s place he might have been able to do something.
“Jax—” he started to cry out, but the words abruptly stopped. He was slow to comprehend what he just witnessed.
When the assassin brought forth the gun Jaxon gripped the tire iron and swung it ferociously at the man’s skull. The force of the blow sent the Arab reeling backward for a couple of steps before collapsing, then skittering away. He whimpered on the concrete and held his damaged head lightly in his hands.
Jaxon breathed heavily as sweat poured down his forehead. He maintained a grip so tight on the tire iron that his knuckles looked ghostly white. His hands twitched.
Reddic walked over to his brother and gently put his arm on his shoulder. He reached down and slowly pulled the iron rod out of his hands.
“It’s okay. It’s over,” Reddic said softly. Once he had the bar in his possession he scooped up the two guns lying on the ground. He ejected the round sitting in the chamber of each weapon.
“Reddic!” Jaxon shouted. “Stop him!”
The assassin was biting into the collar of his jacket!
Before Reddic could reach him a white foamy substance began to pour from his mouth. He was too late, the man collapsed lifeless. Another man sent to kill them had taken his own life. Reddic zeroed in on his right hand. He had the same mark: one dot surrounded by twelve others.
“Have you seen this mark before?” asked Reddic, holding the man’s wrist.
Jaxon peered at it contemplatively. “No,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s the third one I’ve seen in the last twenty hours. Every thug I’ve confronted has had one. It’s got to be important.”
“You’re probably right, but we can’t question him. The guy’s dead.”
“You’re forgetting that his cohort is still in the building. Maybe he’ll be more cooperative than his friend here.”
“What do we do with him?” asked Jaxon. “We can’t just leave him there.”
“I know just where to put him.”
Clasping the dead man under the arms, Reddic dragged the stranger to the blue sedan. He opened the trunk and rolled him in.
“Let’s go,” he said, slamming the trunk closed.
They hustled back to the yellow brick building and climbed the first level of stairs to where the other laid unconscious. Rounding the corner, they stopped short. The other assassin wasn’t there.
“Hurry, to the car,” Reddic said emphatically. “This might be better than we thought.”
“How can you say that? He’s gone.”
Reddic leaped down the steps and pounced through the front entrance.
“Come on!” he shouted, dashing through the parking lot.
Finding a break in traffic, they shot across the street and sprinted another block, heading straight for the Mercedes. Reddic got in and cranked the ignition while Jaxon jumped in the passenger side and reached for his safety belt.
“You’re forgetting that the blue sedan was transportation for them both. It’s his only way out,” Reddic said as he stuck the Benz in reverse.
“What if he takes a taxi?” asked Jaxon in between deep breaths.
“He won’t. It would take too much time for one to show up. This isn’t New York.” The Mercedes tore out of the parking lot and flew down the street leading to the college.
“There he is,” Jaxon exulted as their car reached a stop sign.
“Yep, and he’s in a hurry to get out of here.”
Reddic eased the Mercedes into the flow of traffic, making sure that at least two vehicles were between him and the blue sedan. Keeping his distance would be a problem he quickly realized. The escaping man was recklessly passing other cars on either side of the street. It was difficult to keep up without giving himself away.
After ten tortuous minutes of arbitrary direction changes Reddic began to feel a little disoriented. Even though the Wasatch Mountains were clearly visible from any vantage point, he knew that if he had to make his way back to the small college campus he probably couldn’t. Fortunately, the blue sedan merged onto the Interstate. The multi-lane roadway allowed Reddic to tail the vehicle at a more discreet distance.
The downtown office buildings soon faded away in the rearview mirror. He had seen this very image only a few hours ago, except in reverse. That could mean only one thing. They were close to the airport.
Reddic merged the Mercedes into the airport exit lane. About a quarter of a mile ahead the blue sedan took the same exit. They followed casually until traffic slowed to a mere crawl near the main terminals. Reddic shifted his body from side to side in an effort to see around the dawdling automobiles in front of him. There was no sight of his quarry. Anxiety swelled within his chest as the car rolled passed the passenger drop-off zone. On the right side of the Mercedes were signs displaying the various airlines that Salt Lake International accommodated: Southwest, United, Alaska/Horizon, American West, and Northwest. Any one of them could be his escape route.
At the end of Terminal 2 Reddic spotted the sedan. It was parked alongside the curb, but it was unoccupied. Pulling up behind it, Reddic killed the ignition. He reached for his backpack in the rear seat and opened his door.
“Grab your things. We’ve got to find this guy before he gets away,” Reddic said.
“What about the car?” Jaxon asked.
“Leave it. I’ll let my guy know it’s here. Come on,” he urged.
They rushed through the sliding glass doors and into the terminal. Once inside they quickly decelerated. The terminal was immensely congested. The lines leading to the ticketing counters were lengthy and moving slowly. Crowds gathered around the baggage carousels at the far end of the building. The procession leading to the security checkpoint on the second level looked to be the length of a football field.
“He could be anywhere in here,” Jaxon observed.
Reddic grimaced. He had already come to that conclusion and he certainly didn’t need any additional reminding. Yet, something seemed off. It
would be illogical for a guy on the run to risk commercial travel. There were too many variables to prepare for and anticipate. There had to be another option.
His eyes followed the progression of florescent signs from right to left over each ticketing counter. He quickly spotted an anomaly. They were all functioning except for the last one on the far left. Peering closer, he saw that the ticket counter was completely abandoned. On the wall directly behind the counter was a white poster board taped to it. It read: ALL CHARTERS IN TERMINAL 3.
Terminal 3? Reddic was entirely unaware that there was a third terminal. It suddenly made sense.
“He’s on a charter flight,” declared Reddic. “That’s how they were planning to get out. Follow me, we don’t have much time.”
They raced down the terminal, passing the luggage carousels and running through another set of automatic sliding glass doors. One hundred feet directly in front of them, across a parking area reserved for charter coaches, was a miniature version of the building they just exited. To the left was a waste receptacle. Reddic removed the two guns from his waist line and tossed them in before scurrying across the parking lot.
Entering the small entranceway of the third terminal, they saw that the layout of the building was basic. There was one of everything: one ticket counter, one baggage belt, one security post, and one door to the tarmac. Reddic briskly walked straight toward the security gate.
“Boarding passes, please,” the balding security man said.
Reddic unzipped his backpack and removed a small booklet. It looked like a passport from Jaxon’s point of view. He flashed it in front of the guard’s face.
“I need to get on that plane,” Reddic affirmed.
The guard glared at the booklet, but didn’t say a word. He simply stepped aside and allowed them to pass.
“I’m with him,” Jaxon said hesitantly as he walked by.
Reddic hit the tarmac first at a full sprint. Gusts of wind blew strongly from his right. The plane was only about twenty-five yards away and its stairs were still down. They still could make it. Taking a peek to his rear, Reddic was surprised to see his brother right on his heels.
Within seconds they reached the Gulfstream’s compact six-step door. Gripping the stainless aluminum railing, Reddic pulled his body through the opening. The interior of the jet was lavishly furnished with tan leather couches and loveseats, a small kitchen, a wet bar, card tables, and flat panel television monitors. He noticed that all the seating accommodations were open, except for one. One seat was turned away from the front of the plane.
Reddic managed to take one step down the aisle before the leather seat swiveled around. When he saw who occupied the chair his heart began to race. He knew this man, but he couldn’t remember from where. He was aged, tanned, and maybe a little heavyset. He had silver flowing hair that seemed to sparkle in the light. It felt like déjà vu. The elderly man brought his right hand into view. In it he held a Beretta with a noise suppressor attached to its nose.
“Jaxon, get off the plane,” Reddic said evenly. Jaxon didn’t reply. Instead, he stepped passed Reddic and slowly sat down on the leather couch to his right.
“What are you doing?” Reddic snapped. “Didn’t you—”
He didn’t have time to finish the sentence. The hard object jamming him in the middle of his back silenced him. Now he understood why Jaxon stayed on board. They had been ambushed—again. Reddic turned his head, and out of the corner of his eye, confirmed what he came to suspect. The surviving member of the killing squad stood behind him. Although he couldn’t see it, Reddic knew that he was grinning.
“Welcome aboard,” the older man said. “I was not sure you were going to make it.”
“Let him go,” Reddic said.
“I am afraid I cannot do that,” the man replied. “You may stow your weapon,” he said, motioning to the killer. Reddic felt the gun pull away from his spine. “You have been much more productive than I thought possible. It would be unwise to release you now.”
He raised his Beretta and leveled it on Reddic. “Now I must bid you adieu,” he said.
Then he pulled the trigger.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Everything seemed like it was in slow motion. When the silver-haired man wrapped his finger around the steel trigger and yanked it backward Reddic thought he heard the spring-loaded pin slam against the back of the bullet casing. He thought he heard the brief explosion inside the gun’s chamber. And he thought he saw the bullet exit its cylindrical housing and head in his direction.
Whether he was merely imagining all of this was of little relevance. He desperately wanted to move away, but his feet stuck to the floor. He was frozen. He couldn’t move. All he could do was close his eyes and prepare himself for pain.
Reddic heard the bullet hit. He heard it as it penetrated flesh and crashed through bone. He felt a warm liquid form on the base of his skull. He reached behind his head to touch it. When he brought his hand before his face he knew what it was before he opened his eyes: blood.
Oddly, he felt no pain. He had never been shot before, so he knew not what to expect. He only knew what others had related; and what he felt wasn’t that. He heard a rustling behind him, followed by a heavy crash. Reddic slowly turned his shoulders, careful not to move his neck in case it was damaged.
“What did you do that for?” Jaxon screamed. “Are you insane?”
Lying lifeless in the aisle was the assassin. Blood was streaming out of a small hole in his forehead. His eyes remained open and his mouth was ajar. The muscles in his face looked taut. Reddic’s gaze rested on the corpse for what felt like an eternity. He reached behind his head again and swiped at the blood. There wasn’t much left. Had he been standing behind the man there would have been much more. As it was, only a small amount sprayed outward from where the bullet penetrated the man’s skull.
“He disobeyed my orders,” the armed man stated simply.
“That’s nice,” Jaxon retorted petulantly. “Did Dr. Langford fail you too? Was that his mistake? Was it Dr. Hall’s mistake as well? Huh? They failed you? You’re a pathetic human being,” he hissed.
“Calm down, Jax,” Reddic urged. “Don’t upset the man.”
“I suggest you heed your brother’s advice,” the man offered.
Reddic scrutinized the older man as he spoke. He knew he had laid eyes on this man before. Images flashed through his mind as he tried to recall from where. Then it hit him.
The file.
“What do you want?” asked Reddic.
“Oh, come now, Reddic Smith. Why do you persist in misleading us? Do we not deserve more trust than that?” the man asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“There are no secrets on this plane,” he said, waving the gun. “My sources tell me that you have been the beneficiary of high level training, financed by our own government. It is also likely that you are concealing an agenda that conflicts with your brother’s.”
“He’s trying to divide us, Jax. Don’t listen to him.”
“Why would I lie?”
“He has not told you anything that you don’t already know. I explained to you that I went through some training. That is no secret. And yes, I do have an agenda. I want to find the one responsible for ordering the attack on your professor for justice sake. And now we both know who it is; he’s sitting before us.”
“Very convincing, Reddic,” the man said. “I applaud your resourcefulness. You are well trained indeed.”
“If there are no secrets,” Reddic broke in, cutting him off. “Then why have you been trying to kill us?”
“Don’t you want to know who I am first?” he asked. “I have a better idea, why don’t you introduce me, Jaxon.”
Reddic’s head swiveled around to face his brother. Jaxon made eye contact and then looked away. “You know him?” Reddic asked.
“Yes. I’m afraid it is how he knows us too. Well, at least he knows who I am. He was one of Dr. Langford’s p
rimary donors. I’ve met him a few times. His name is Joseph Faulkner, President of JPF Oil & Gas. He has a net worth somewhere over twenty billion dollars. He earned a PhD in Egyptology from Cal-Berkeley in 1964, but he never taught. Instead, he used his Middle Eastern resources to establish one of the most profitable privately owned oil companies in the world. After he made his millions he began dabbling in academia, but only in a researcher’s capacity. He and Dr. Langford began their association many years ago in Cairo. I believe it was principally founded on the exchange of theories and sources. They even worked together on a couple of projects.”
“That was until the esteemed Dr. Langford betrayed me,” Faulkner said, looking possessed. “It was I that approached him with the Stone of Truth theory, for I was the scholar that translated it out of the Book of the Dead. We researched it for a time together until Matthew’s avarice consumed him.”
“Hold on a second,” Reddic said. “What is the Stone of Truth and how did Langford betray you?”
“I’m sure that Jaxon has shared with you a good deal already, has he not? Matthew always spoke highly of him.”
“I know very little of what Jaxon is researching,” Reddic replied. “I’m familiar with only a few basic elements.” He recounted everything that he could remember from what Jaxon and Hall had communicated earlier.
“You have learned much more than I thought possible. Please make yourselves comfortable. I am in no hurry to leave just yet. As you can see, a corpse has defiled my jet. Once the area is sanitized I will depart. Until then, permit me to share with you the singular event that changed my life,” Faulkner said. He pointed his weapon for emphasis. “It was many years ago when I stumbled upon the greatest mystery I had ever known while I was perusing various Egyptian papyri.
It was about one of the oldest forms of Egyptian purification ceremonies, known as the Opening of the Mouth rite. During this ritual two peculiar white stones were used to imperially open an infant’s mouth. Accordingly, the stones fed the infant with a mystic power, giving it temporary dominance over mortality. Let it be noted that a Jewish legend recorded that Abraham was nourished in the same manner when he was abandoned in Egypt as a child.