by Michael Todd
“Fuck!” The thug recoiled and shielded his broken nose.
The assassin on his left had used the distraction to draw the blade completely. Weaponless, Mixon lunged across the now very dead man in the middle to grasp the wrist holding the knife.
He groaned and struggled to breathe while he grappled in his clumsy position to gain some kind leverage over the man who still held a dangerous measure of control over the weapon.
Strong hands snaked around his legs when the thug with the broken nose tried to drag him off his teammate. The operative grunted and kicked out and his assailant yelped when a boot connected hard—hopefully with the swollen and painful nose, he thought belligerently.
“Yeah, you get her good!” someone yelled from outside. Three younger men stood there, and one laughed and pumped his hips suggestively.
Under any other circumstances, Mixon might have laughed. Typical of that age, they’d immediately thought someone was having sex inside the vehicle. Thankfully, the tinted windows would preserve the fallacy of an amorous encounter long enough for him to get the job done before anyone thought to ask questions.
He released his grasp on the man’s wrist and his surprised adversary cursed when the blade nicked his own cheek with the unexpected jerk free. The operative lashed out with his boot again to deliver another blind strike into the assassin at his rear.
The blade swung toward him and he rolled instinctively off the dead man’s knees scant seconds before the weapon punched into the beefy thigh. For a moment, Mixon almost panicked at the thought that he might be trapped in the tiny gap between the man’s legs and the back of the seats.
His hand clawed the carpeting and closed around the sticky comfort of his blade. Adrenaline surged and with a yell, he pounded his other fist into the exposed groin of the man who raised his weapon to strike. The assassin keened and doubled over, and the operative grasped a handful of his assailant’s hair to haul himself free. As he pushed out of the narrow space, he swung his knife underhand and into the thug’s chest. For a desperate, wild strike powered mainly by desperation, it might actually count as a miracle. The metal sank deeply and without resistance, directly above the fifth rib, to bring almost instant death.
He dragged the knife out to free a splash of warm blood as the last heartbeats pumped a few times before they ceased entirely. The silence was absolute, a breath-holding moment that rushed in as the adrenaline-charged impetus faded.
When his pulse had calmed, he turned to the last man, who seemed to have lost all will to fight.
“No.” His final target twisted, scrabbled at the door, and managed to pop the lever without tearing his gaze from the operative.
Mixon clutched his collar before he could throw the door open and leaned forward to make sure it was closed.
“I really am sorry.” He honestly tried to be as empathetic as he could, but the effect was no doubt hindered by the somewhat macabre sight of him sprawled over the two dead men. His adversary fumbled to draw a knife to defend himself, but his movements were slow and jerky—the kind made by a man in shock who looked his own end in the eye. He wasn’t quick enough, and Mixon’s deft swing severed his carotid artery with a precise, practiced motion.
The man uttered a garbled sound of protest and slumped against the door. His fingers clawed frantically in an effort to staunch the blood flow, but a few seconds later, his eyes lost their focus and the body sagged.
Mixon dragged in a deep breath. He crawled over the dead men to the door on the street side and cracked it tentatively. Hopefully, he’d attract less attention if he exited there. One of the men had hung a coat over the back of the seat and he yanked it off and fumbled a few times, half unbalanced on his awkward perch, until he managed to get it on. It was a little large but would suffice, and the dark color would probably hide any blood he and it had collected.
As he patted his victim’s pockets to retrieve what he could—only a single cell phone, in this case—he acknowledged that the apparent argument had been a very effective ploy. No one, including the would-be assassins, had noticed his gloves, something that might have been a dead giveaway. They’d all been too busy avoiding looking at him to see what was right under their noses.
Which meant fingerprints were something he wouldn’t have to worry about. He didn’t think he’d left blood behind, and of course, no one could predict the odd hair falling out. Still, with the amount of blood and gore around, his paltry offering would hopefully slide into the comfortable space of contaminated fluids and be unusable.
Mixon shrugged, slid out of the car as casually as he could, and adjusted the coat as he strolled toward his car.
He grinned when he felt the weight of the knife he’d also taken where it nestled in the back of his waistband. It was a good blade, a little longer and straighter than the one he’d taken from Savage’s armory and with a keen edge and good balance. His grin broadened. They would call him two-knife Terry from this point forward.
No, that was stupid, but it was also amusing.
Once safely in his car and away from curious eyes, he took the phone from his pocket, pressed the button for an emergency call, and dialed nine-one-one.
“Hello, operator?” he asked, disguising his voice. “I saw a couple of folks fighting in a car. Or screwing, maybe. Or both. I couldn’t really tell. Either way, it was very disturbing, and if you could send someone over that would be great. Oh, yeah, the license is AMP 299, and it’s parked in front of the Interlude restaurant on 42nd. Thanks.”
He hung up and lobbed the phone out of the window into the oncoming traffic. Anderson, with his wife and kid, stepped out of the restaurant, blissfully unaware of the sinister relevance of the SUV they walked past on the way to their car.
“Why did I do it with a British accent?” he asked himself and shook his head as he started the engine to pull onto the road behind his charges.
Chapter Ten
Anderson stepped out of the apartment and onto the terrace overlooking the city of Philadelphia. It was a clear night—something common during the fall, he was told—and the nightlife was booming.
Thankfully, the accommodation provided by Pegasus was well elevated so all he could really hear was the occasional honk of a horn above the veritable white noise machine a city became at night.
Even though it wasn’t their apartment, he knew Ivy would have an issue with him smoking inside the house. It apparently had something to do with their son learning bad habits despite the fact that he didn’t smoke that often, and when he did, it was only cigars. They’d discussed it a few times and disagreed each time, but he didn’t feel like having the conversation with her again. It had been a nice night, they’d both had a good time, and he didn’t want to shadow things with a pointless debate.
For tonight, she won, and he had his cigar out on the terrace where he blew lazy smoke rings into the quickly chilling evening air. Once winter arrived, he wouldn’t smoke outside anymore, he knew that. One way or another, he’d find a way around the restriction.
He sighed and took in the sights and the sounds of the city below him. Despite the metropolis ambiance, it was peaceful. He was almost a quarter of the way through the cigar when the door to the terrace opened.
“Come on. I’m smoking outside—what else do you want?” he demanded. He glanced toward the door, ready to have the argument again, but it wasn’t Ivy.
Mixon carried himself well, a tall man and lean and lanky, with his blond hair cut to the pristine one inch demanded by anyone in a military march. He was at least dressed in civilian clothes, which was a plus, except they weren’t the same ones he’d seen the man wearing when he kept an eye on Damon in school. That observation was faintly alarming.
“I keep myself free from most vices these days, but I don’t expect the same level of restraint in everyone else,” the operative said with a small, bemused smile. “By all means, smoke away. Although maybe avoid it in front of your son?”
“He’s eight. He’ll understa
nd that it comes with special occasions.” Anderson shook his head. “No, you’re right. I’m merely imagining having this debate with my wife. It’s complicated.”
“It usually is.”
“In the interests of wildly changing the subject…” The colonel moved closer to his visitor but puffed a lungful of scented smoke away from him. “Did anything happen at the restaurant that you think warrants my attention?”
“At the restaurant proper?” Mixon asked with a shrug. “Nothing at all. But outside the place though… I really thought I’d kept it as subtle as possible. I didn’t want to disturb what looked like a happy moment with the people you love.”
Anderson nodded. “I appreciate that. And it was—unless you know what you’re looking for. To me, an SUV arriving at the same moment we order the check is a little suspicious. I saw you walk around it twice, kick it, and jump in with one of the occupants.”
“Right.” He chuckled ruefully. “Well, they were armed and ready for a fight—one they didn’t expect from me. I disposed of them and alerted the authorities afterward. The police scanner app I have on my phone said five bodies were found in the car, stabbed to death using a knife or some other sharp instrument. The officers on the scene said that it looked like a savage gangland hit.”
The ex-colonel smirked, took another hit from his cigar, and exhaled the smoke away carefully. “Honestly, that does sound like something Savage would do. I do appreciate you taking care of me and my family like that.”
“I’m simply looking after you, boss,” Mixon said with a chuckle. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll turn in now.”
“You do that.” He patted the operative gently on the shoulder. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Will do, Colonel.”
“Don’t call me that,” he said as the other man turned away.
The sniper swung to look at him. “I thought you Marines had this thing—once a Marine, always a Marine, right?”
“I’ll always be a Marine, no doubts about that. But I was never cut out to be a colonel.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” It was better than Colonel, Anderson mused, but not by much. Either way, he let the man go about his business. They would see a lot more of each other, at least until Savage returned from his little vacation to Mexico. From that point forward, things would be far more interesting.
He’d assumed that Anja would have been in touch by now, and the fact that Courtney hadn’t called him once all day told him that she had. For some reason, he’d been kept out of the loop. That would change, though, once Savage arrived.
By virtue of his previous rank, all the military people assumed he was the one in charge of this operation. He was a ranking member, of course, but that didn’t mean that he was in charge. Thank God, he was a little lower down the pole than that.
He took a deep drag of his cigar, closed his eyes until he could feel his lungs burning, and released it into the air.
Now that he thought about it, maybe Ivy was right. Besides, smoking outside gave him a sense of freedom that didn’t come when he did it inside.
A lot of complaints had come from closing the street off, mostly from the owners of the local businesses that were interestingly high-end. You didn’t get stuff like this in the more gentrified neighborhoods these days, which made it all the more satisfying when he told the pompous asses who talked about how many calls the commissioner would receive about this in the morning that they could shove it.
Sure, it would probably be his ass and his badge the next day. No longer would they call him Officer Angelo Cruz a week from now. It would be worth it, though. More than worth it.
Seeing their faces when he told them there was no way he would open the street to let a bunch of pompous rich folk trample all over his crime scene was all he needed to justify his decision.
Of course, the commissioner wouldn’t see if that way, especially when the news came that no evidence could be found at the scene of the crime.
Make that a terrifying lack of it. They would need a DNA swab to determine that, but there were many guns in the car, although no shots fired. There was also a lot of blood, but the knives he found on the scene were all left clean. The men were all killed wearing body-armor-infused suits that had to be a lot more expensive than anything a cop would ever see, and yet they all drove in a cut-rate SUV with stolen plates and no serial number attached.
“So, what do you think?” Detective Soza, one of his oldest friends, asked as he walked over to where Cruz had a sip of his neglected coffee.
“Would you believe me if I said it was gang-on-gang violence?” he asked, finished the lukewarm liquid, and winced as it went down.
“No, I don’t think anyone has bought that particular pile of bullshit,” the other man said with a chuckle. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and tapped one out. After a moment of thought, he offered one to Cruz, who shook his head.
“Six months without touching one of those cancer cylinders,” Cruz said with a chuckle. “But thanks.”
“Six months, huh?” Soza looked impressed. “I’m proud of you, man. I know how long you’ve tried to kick the habit.”
“Thanks. So, if it’s not gang-on-gang violence, what the hell are we looking at? I sure as fuck can’t tell.”
“Well, unless we’re looking at a gang war between Calvin Klein and Armani, I think we can rule a gang hit out,” Soza said and shook his head vehemently. “Beyond that, though, I draw a blank. Maybe the forensics team will have better luck finding something.”
The warehouse sprawled in the early morning light, apparently as deserted as ever. Of course, he knew better. Anderson stepped out of his car and studied the structure with a scowl. On that particular morning, he questioned why he’d bothered to get up this early. For some reason, people were keeping him out of the loop and the irritation that caused wasn’t only precipitated by his constantly lurking paranoia.
When he’d all but made up his mind to confront everyone, Courtney had given him a call after he’d dropped Damon off at school. Apparently, she wouldn’t be back in town for a while and she wanted him to pass equipment along to their little team of outcasts.
The soldier in him had immediately responded with a surge of satisfaction. The conflict they faced and the formidable adversaries ranged against them demanded that they push forward with the group. That would only be achieved by equipping them with superior advantages rather than those provided by the questionable arsenal Savage had managed to pull from only God knew where.
Thus far, the results were promising, and Courtney’s supplies would only push them to a higher level. Yet, despite his icy conviction that he would do whatever it took to crush those who’d declared war on them, the tiny tendril of paranoia niggled constantly below the surface. What was there to keep the newcomers from simply absconding with the weapons and the money they already had and dropping off the face of the earth?
Or worse, the insidious little voice suggested, teaming up with someone who might pay them a lot more than they did?
He sighed and engaged his dark, secret enemy to push it back down where he knew it wouldn’t stay. His gaze swept the building and he tried to determine if anyone was actually there. Their team had been hired partly because they were good at keeping themselves hidden. Would he really be able to tell if they were around if they didn’t want him to know?
Which, of course, reminded him of his real source of irritation. He hated not being in the know. About more things than this, obviously, but it was easier to focus on what was in front of him. He sighed and circled his car to drag a couple of heavy bags from the trunk. It seemed petty to complain that he’d have to lug both of them to the warehouse, but the damn things were heavy, and he really wasn’t in the mood.
He leaned down to grasp one of them when it slid a few feet away. His startled gaze settled on Savage who stopped him, grinning like an idiot.
“Hey,” the man said. “How was the family d
inner? Did Mixon do his work?”
“Well, yes, obviously.” Anderson chuckled. “How’s Mexico this time of year? They don’t exactly have fall or winter there, so I assume the sun was shining? Birds chirping?”
“Oh, it was all right.” Savage rumbled a laugh. “There was a lot of gang violence there, though. It really got in the way of me enjoying my time there. Actually, it made us cut the visit short.”
“No shit?” The two men stepped inside the warehouse. “There’s been a rise in gang violence around here too. People dying and getting knifed and shot all over the damn place.”
“That’s the condition of the world these days.” Savage tried for wise and regretful, but it fell short at sarcastic.
Davis was already there, waiting for them with a box of doughnuts and a thermos of coffee.
“You look like shit,” he observed as he filled a plastic cup with coffee and took one of the pastries. This was breakfast for them, mostly because neither had the time or the supplies to make the toast, egg, and bacon breakfast Anderson had enjoyed.
He was lucky to have Ivy, he realized as he sat on the table between the two of them.
“We’re waiting for Mixon to show his face before we get started.” He felt sorely tempted to try one of the doughnuts. They looked freshly baked, coated in glaze, chocolate, or sprinkles—or some ungodly mixtures of the above, which still looked delicious in the way only junk food could.
The sniper arrived before his temptation proved irresistible.
“How’s it going?” Savage asked after a sip of coffee.
“Well, I dropped a kiddo off at school this morning,” he responded. “Then followed the mother to make sure no one tried to make an attempt on her life before I came here.”