Wight

by Dorien Vincent

  He shifted to neutral, put the kick stand down and slid off the bike. The tires smoked.

  Yonatan stood there, clapping his hands when Tset stood up from the ignition, "Good show!" He exclaimed, his gleaming white teeth flashing in his smiles.

  Tset nodded, and gave an at-ease salute. "I'm here for my job."

  "Ah, yes, sir, one second, okay?" Yonatan was still laughing.

  Tset leaned on his seat and lit a cigarette.

  Yonotan went inside and came out two minutes later, "Your mission is being sen' to you now, sir. De Mans would like to complimen' your drivin' skills. Dey look outs warn 'em of attack far too late for dem to do anythin' about it! I figure' it was you, though."

  Tset was about to answer but was distracted by the buzz of his cellular phone, instead he said, "Thanks, Yonotan." And took the text.

  His first contract. It was heavily encrypted.

  There was a photograph of an angry, silver-haired man with a mustache glaring at him from his phone's high-resolution screen.

  First Run:

  The Good Senator, An Introduction

  Tset scrolled down, the parameters were laid out as follows:

  ***Sen. George Thomas Wilks***

  Wilks is currently moving in on the territory of some of our clients. Politically protected. American. Claims to be an overseas bigwig in the USA. Proceed with caution. Motives and suspects must remain hidden.

  Any questions?

  Yours,

  Hal

  Tset texted back:

  Where is he?

  Instantly, a response:

  Mission accepted. Deleting encrypted message

  ...

  ...

  ...

  He is currently staying at the Mahareejah Hotel, on Baakerston.

  Tset thought. Then sent:

  Guards?

  And got back:

  Many. And spies in the wait staff. You could not make it in undetected.

  Tset snorted at that, slapping his phone shut and stuffing it in his jacket pocket. "Farewell, Yonatan."

  He waved and Yonotan nodded.

  He got back on his machine and dragged it into place. As soon as the engine started he'd already gone.

  Tset had to think, so he was taking it slow. The speedometer needled 45. Tset crossed his right leg over the gas tank, pulling out his phone and checking his contacts with his left hand while maintaining speed with his right.

  Hal was not among them.

  "Fuck."

  He snapped the phone shut in his fingers, stuffing it back into its pocket. He put the bike into 4th and sped home.

  His hotel room was a mess. A box marked 'Books not Gunz,' several other boxes proclaiming expensive clothing labels done in bleakly artsy colors, and another U-LUG box containing Tset's vintage gear.

  "God damn."

  He went to sorting it all out - stacking the weapons and ammo into his closet and hanging his clothes up in his other closet.

  After getting his new job he decided to move and booked himself a hotel room under a false name using one of his 'overseas' bank accounts. This is where he had all his things shipped from the clothing district and from Tristram's. He hadn't even seen the room besides in a brochure until now, and it was grand.

  He was pleased but frustrated and distracted at the same time.

  It was riding in on midnight when Tset had gotten things into a semblance of organization. The two walk-in closets in the two-bedroom suite really made it easy to store his things - in the one, some, but also under his mattresses. One of the bed frames was actually hollow, so that's where he put his airplane case with his sniper rifle in.

  He was standing in his marble-floored foyer when he spotted a newspaper with that same face from his phone - only now it was kissing babies and looking happier than Tset cared to believe. A large American flag was framing that face.

  Tset read the article. This man was an oil magnate and a 'Presidential Representative' (which didn't make sense). He was rumored to be looking for a gateway into the Middle Eastern Tribal Continent, which was protected by century-old UN mandates, the USA itself had nothing to say about him, though it was rumored he had fled to Europe in political exile.

  Tset scoffed, from what he knew of Americans and their politicians, he had probably been deported.

  Either way, he was going to be at party at a country club in Old France not two days from then.

  Tset fabricated a French passport and his ID. He tagged his ID mutable account in Switzerland (which seemed like a legitimate bank account, but was not) with Jean Jacques Du Mondeau.

  Tset did not know French. "Mon dieu." He said, then he showered, changed, went downstairs, lit an Emperial, swung a leg over his bike and sped off for Old France, a three day drive, if you drove like a European. Tset made it in one and a half.

  He had some things to set up before the night of.

  The night of the party arrived and Tset found himself radiating expense and drinking good champagne, standing around a country club.

  Jean Jacques was quite the life of the party. His subtlety had the women tittering and the men guffawing good-naturedly while building secret hates. The subtlety was sourced in the fact that Tset was unable to speak French and didn't believe in his ability to affect a good accent. However, being French explained his odd habit of constantly wearing sunglasses.

  But then, while he floundered and wasted time, he had a wing man. Out of the blue, and wearing blue, was Francois. He stood in a French-cut dark navy suit and blue suede shoes. His shirt was white and his inch-wide yellow- and brown-striped cravat was an example of perfect trim. His clean-shaven, deprecating charm had him a number of groupies as well.

  "Bonjour mon ami!"

  Francois looked at him, "And 'oo eez zeese?"

  Tset switched his champagne and held out his hand, "Jean Jacques! Du Mondeau? Do not tell me you do not know me. We worked for ze same companie while in Ze Citie, yes?"

  Then it hit him. This was that American freak. His clothing belied his inner sharpitude, his easy grin and affected accent showed a man in reckless control. He was also here on a suicide mission as his preliminaries. As was usual for people the higher-ups did not trust.

  He observed Tset, in pinstripe, blackest charcoal suit, silver cuff links - black silk shirt, black silk tie. The man looked deadly and utterly relaxed.

  "... Jean Jacques!" And Francois threw his arms around him, kissing both cheeks and stating, "I saw your..."

  "... contract ..."

  "... come wis me."

  They spoke in a far-detached part of the party, Francois switching back and forth between French and English to throw off anyone coming over to see what was wrong with the Frogs in that they were speaking English to each other.

  After being given the low-down, Tset struck up a conversation with a lady pointed out to him by Francois.

  He charmed her and entertained her, giving her the impression of a crass low-class with some money and a quick tongue and sharp wit. She just had to introduce him to her friend, Ethel. Tset's conversation had specifically included things along Ethel's line of work, so the first lady, Katrine, would think Ethel above all others.

  Ethel led to Steve and Mary Guinessburg, and then Jean-Hubert Larrousse, then on and on, until Tset would have known the entire upper crust of European international political sheep had he cared to remember their names longer than was necessary to charm them. And they him. He wasn't rich enough to remember for more than ten minutes, even if they spoke for twenty.

  Eventually he was standing right next to his target. The way he suddenly felt his rib rubbing against the butte of his .45 as he breathed unnerved him. Not now, though.

  The Senator was busy spreading the image that Americans were idiotic and war-like, convincing Tset that the Vikings had moved to and founded the US and dyed and cut their hair. The Senator's arms were waving, spilling champagne on the less-agile guests.

  Tset was smiling at him, slightly, more of a sti
ll-frame of a light facial tic.

  Wilks suddenly jabbed a fat red finger at him, "What do you think?"

  Tset put his hand on his chest and his jaw dropped slightly, no words passing his lips, a classic 'moi?' pose, and on accident, totally natural, but he thought, 'What was the mud slinger talking about? Oh, yes. The merits of hydro electrical power.'

  Of course, Wilks probably blew up his own liners to obtain insurance money, probably burned down his fuel dumps in foreign lands and blamed it on terrorists and innocent villagers, so it didn't matter at all, really, that he professed hydro-electric power. He didn't do anything. This was international politics, words about actions spoke much louder than no words about other unseemly actions, which is why America, for the most part, had nothing to do with international politics anymore, and its intrinsic and proliferous rots.

  Like child pornography, which Wilks adored, Tset had found, in using his phone's decoding WorldNet browser, searching for a lead while setting up his contingencies.

  He also knew that Wilks had a heart condition, but for now, this was irrelevant.

  Tset began, "Ah, powair, ah, hydro-electrique powair, is good for ze environment..." He thought, 'Fucking dumb,' but continued, "... and zeese days, ze environment eez quite important to us, well, how you say, not important, but, unbalanced! It eese teetering on ze brink, and wissout measures now to prevent eets collapse, future generations will live wissout sings we considair mere banalities now." When he glanced around, most were nodding in agreement or looking thoughtful, no one had called him out on his ridiculous accent.

  Wilks also nodded, "What's your name?"

  Tset held out his hand, "Jean-Jacques. I'm a small-time investor based in Parie." Tset smiled inwardly. He didn't give his last name, didn't say which Paris, and didn't say what sort of investments. Maybe snorkels? And Jean-Jacques? 'Come on. Ha.' He was untraceable. And perhaps too cocky, 'But untraceably cocky.'

  Tset continued, "But your reputation outlives you, sir!" 'Outlives, wrong word, but he's French and a hick, obviously,' "You are Mr. Senator Wilks! I am glad America is coming back togezer after ze Second Revolution. Good to know people such as yourself are taking up ze banner for freedom!" Tset suddenly realized it was lying money whores like this that brought on the Second Revolution, he would be doing the whole American populace a great favor.

  If only this was the President, which America didn't seem to have anymore.

  "Why, thank you."

  "You're very welcome, monsieur, but I must ask, when not fighting for world government and freedom and equality and all ziss, what does a modern-day 'ero such as yourself do?" Tset realized the cigarette-burn feeling he had on his head in deuce was Francois trying to kill him with his eyes. He was laying it on thick for a French guy.

  Wilks blinked with bewilderment. Tset compensated, coming out of his dive, "I'm so sorry, sir. I've studied your work in ze Congo and in ze Middle Eeest." Two things he'd picked up by eavesdropping, "You are a 'ero!"

  Wilks smiled, an ugly thing, it didn't belong on his face. It made Tset think of rape. "Well, honestly, I believe in a healthy, active life style."

  Tset kept him going, 'Daily activities. Jack pot.' "Oh yes? Like what?"

  "Well, obviously, you are a man of athletic capability, my friend. Your physique shows through your moderate clothing, and you're not dressed down!"

  Tset nodded an appreciative smile. He saw Tset's nipples but not his .45? This man was insane.

  Wilks continued, "For instance, every morning, I go out for a jog. Keeps me limber," Tset almost died right then, "... and gets some much-needed fresh air into the lungs."

  Tset almost finished with 'to counteract the €$375 cigar smoke' but instead said, "But 'ow do you get zeese time even when abroad?" He was asking too many questions, but Wilks apparently let it slide, feeling he had explained himself already. Tset mentally sang to himself, 'Contingencies, please contingent me...' Now somewhat nervous.

  "I said, mornings. Best time. Just before sunrise is my favorite time."

  Tset was set. He zoned out and planned everything in his head while continuing with banalities, keeping a sharp external eye if he had tipped anyone off, but no security was moving and there were no shifty glances.

  Wilks actually ended up liking Tset so much he saw him off, and as Tset left in a Jaguar he'd picked up outside of town the Senator turned to his security chief, "I want that man - everything about him, on my desk, twenty minutes."

  There were too many matches, but there was a web site for a snorkel-investment company and the downloadable business card had Tset's picture on it, no sunglasses. Jean-Jacques Du Mondeau. And the company checked out and led back to Le Swim Shoppe, a Swiss firm, that the chief knew had been around for twenty years.

  He didn't bother to check into the complex algorithms Tset had gotten put into his website to make all the legitimate appearances work out even though they didn't exist at all. Or the ID search that had revealed stock family photos of Tset's Jean-Jacques lineage and current family and the public record search that verified his license plate number. That was actually a fake plate, so even if the chief cross-checked, he wouldn't end up with the real car-owner's ID, but would be back at Monsieur Du Mondeau.

  Tset, back in The City, smiled to himself about it while lighting another Imperial and enjoying a gin and tonic with straight cranberry and a thin slice of orange.

  And Wilks, not wanting to seem paranoid, gave up the hunt. Du Mondeau was obviously just another creepy Frenchman. Dime a dozen. Wilks lit his cigar and opened his laptop, trying to get his mind off things.

  Wilks: The End of an Act

  Two days later, Monday at 6AM, Wilks was out for a jog in a park far across town from his hotel. He was admiring the early-morning sun when three high-caliber shots punched through his torso, throat and face, destroying his ribcage and shredding the back of his sweatshirt. Another two took out his body guards - smashing through them and laying them dead and flat in an instant.

  While the wicked echo and crack of rifle fire faded, Wilks couldn't blink the dust of the road from his eyes, and his last thoughts weren't about what a deplorable example of a human being he had been, but rather, why him? Now? He had a DVD in the mail to him he would never get to watch.

  His security chief's last thoughts, however, were entirely different. He had failed.

  How had he failed?

  Everything had been perfect, but what had gone on with his sniper on the roof? The man had checked out, and even then had been mind-wiped and reprogrammed.

  Maybe the reprogrammer?

  He didn't know now, and no one would care - the fact was the man killed the ex-Senator and the two body-guards and then himself with no apparent motives, with full video footage and multiple witnesses. How had it happened?

  He shrugged and sighed. No use now. His life was over. His career was over. His family was going to be over after several days of soul-bending torture. He had failed one of the oldest once-ruling families. He saw what they did to their friends, much less their enemies, and he was an enemy.

  He raised his chin, like he was shaving, pressed the .357 to his throat, thinking, 'This is big enough.' And pulled the trigger.

  Three AM, Monday morning, Tset, dressed in body armor and combat gear, and with a large rifle slung over his back, was dragging a limp body up countless flights of stairs. The body was in exactly similar gear, save a plastic bag over its head, and extremely heavy. Tset heaved with all his might, struggling to get the thing up the steep flights.

  Tset also had with him two hand grenades, one operational as well as one that had been partially diffused. And one insulated plastic bag.

  He arrived on the roof of the building and deposited the body on the last landing, inside the door. He went outside and carefully searched the roof for assassins. There were none. He picked up his radio and said, "All clear."

  "Roger." Said the chief.

  The other Eagles, the rooftop Senate guards, all intoned the s
ame thing, each being acknowledged.

  Then the Beagles, and Tset laughed at this, the ground Senate guards, spoke identically, the same thing. Not so much as a hobo to hassle the Senator - they'd already shot them all to death on his orders the night of the party in France, which is how Tset had learned senator's plans - over a hundred and fifty dead were hard to cover up, especially if you burned them in a pyre.

  Tset hunkered down, waiting, scanning for possible threats in the trees, looking useful and active.

  The person he was doppelganging hadn't smoked, and so Tset sat irritated for three hours because he couldn't have a cigarette.

  But the wait was well worth it. The senator came on down the road, jogging his rolls along at a ridiculously slow pace. If his body guard didn't walk, they'd lose him.

  Of course, Tset's rifle had a guard in it, so he couldn't aim his scope at the Senator. These bastardized Americans were smart - if he did any more than sweep over him or if he lead him at all, the Chief would be alerted and Tset would be shot to death instantly by one or both of the other Eagles.

  Didn't matter. Tset had recalibrated the scope - it was badly aligned, way over right and down, useless and inaccurate.

  He took his eye away and pulled his tinted goggles up, grinning as he sighted by eye across a half-mile.

  He adjusted slightly, winking, tensing.

  He breathed outward, carefully, tightly.

  Before his drifting from protocol, his lagging scope, his eye from his sight were noticed, the rifle flared five times: three for Wilks, and twice for the body guards for good measure. By the end of his breath he was done, three were dead and the remainder hadn't even begun to compute the ruinous scene presented.