Without Wrath (Harbinger of Change Book 3)

by Timothy Jon Reynolds

  Of course, before he embarked on his mission he took her out to their boat to explain why he had to make this trip. Matt had designed the perfect length rope to get them away from the dock and keep them out of harm’s way on the Sound; this a result of Jon Jon getting out one night and heading to the dock when they were tied up to the dock making love.

  Last night they’d zippered up the cabin to avoid the mosquitoes and made passionate love on the Sound. The moonlight was playing off the water and they could see the San Juan Islands in the West. The boat rocked with their rhythm and he reminded her again—in a non-verbal way—that he was different now, much more in control in every aspect. After lovemaking they unzipped the cabin and got out the sleeping bag. They both climbed in and just absorbed the universe as a whole. It was such a wonderful night, what with all the sounds of nature and God’s breathtaking round night-light overseeing them, providing light where there should be darkness.

  Matt never looked at a full moon the same since one of them saved his life. It was the night he and Vera fled the United States; they both surely would have perished if Doug Sharp had had to fly at treetop level in total darkness. Since that night, he never let a full moon pass without taking notice of its splendor.

  They looked back at the house and it was all lit up, the bay windows in full glow with Jon Jon in the window closest to the fireplace, looking out with his grandparents behind. He understood why she didn’t want him to go, but he wanted her to understand that he wanted to help make this world safe for their son. Matt Hurst was not going to just sit back and ponder the daily news until the day he died. At least this way he was attempting to make real change in the world that Jon Jon would grow up in.

  Jan wanted to start in on him as he was leaving the next day, but she held her tongue and just let him go.

  He was hanging up with her, hoping that she came to some sort of understanding of his obligation when he saw the handler wheel his bag up and prepare to throw it into the luggage abyss. He was up and running before it got added to the madness pile, as his bag had no tags left and was headed for purgatory when he caught up to it. After some heavy pleading and the use of his new language skills, he got his bag and headed out of the airport to get his car.

  As he stepped out onto the sidewalk he was hit hard right in the face, his nose was on fire and he almost went down for the count. He steadied himself and exclaimed out loud, “Yuck, how can anyone breathe this air?” It was a combination of rotten egg and bus fumes and he would rather have ridden in a downtown cab in mid-summer rather than endure this horrid place one more second. It was quite literally incomprehensible for him to imagine living in this madness.

  It set the tone for an almost unintelligible run to his hotel. With the rank odor, blaring noise, traffic and madness that is Mexico City driving, it took a few intersections just to get settled. After a few miles of GPS instruction he turned right on Calle Isabel la Católica. From his beloved History Channel, he knew that Mexico City was built to rival the great European cities. He saw French influence in the buildings architecture and remembered the style as Porfirian. He remembered them saying that Mexico City was known as the La Ciudad de los Palacios (City of Palaces), a nickname some 19th century guy gave it, but the man’s name eluded him.

  Great, now that was going to cloud his thoughts until he remembered or more likely, researched who had said that? The point, he argued with himself, was that the bloody place had lots of European influence. That was a time killer and before he knew it he was turning his rented Passat right on Avenida 5 de Mayo and a few blocks later, he was checking into his room at the Hotel Central on the Plaza de la Constitución.

  Matt had been to Mexico before. His dad made a good living in construction and he had grown up not really ever understanding the true value of a dollar. His doting mom always was slipping him cash as he was leaving for any adventure. Whether it was a trip to the mall, a concert, or spring break in Cancún, he was always able to participate without feeling shy about not having money. They’d rented cars on their trips and ventured out into other cities and ruins.

  Of course, it was nothing like this, but he didn’t have the feeling he would have had if he’d just been set loose in Istanbul on a mission. Mexico could be a very strange and sometimes terrifying place, but he could think of a lot worse. Technically, he had been to Mexico City twice to change planes, which makes him almost a native. However, he had no clue about the three hundred pound gorilla that jumped you upon exiting to the street, otherwise he might have been more prepared for that. He wondered if other assassins took into consideration such things. Other assassins? He looked in the mirror of his room. He wasn’t sure what looked back, but it surely wasn’t an assassin. He did play the part though; he wore dark glasses and had a hat.

  Over the last nine months he’d learned to speak provisional Spanish, but they also had fine-tuned certain conversations and taught him to use his body language to keep people from talking to him. Jim Jensen had a laundry list of things he’d taught Matt so far, and one of them was mimicry. He was so good and he could switch from Spanish to French, Italian, and finally Russian. He wasn’t fluent in any of them, but he’d learned how to use bad temperament as a tool to get people to be wary and not want to engage him. Not anger, but a bad disposition and a bad aura in general. It could be done and it could be done effectively.

  Jim Jensen stood only five foot seven—and had the tiniest feet Matt could remember on a man—so it was easier for him to blend without being remembered. Matt had no such luck, as he was a six-footer. Easy to remember is the big gringo standing tall, not so easy to remember is the same gringo when he’s learned to hide his height by stooping and leaning on counters. He hid his European looks with hats and glasses and a beard. Although normally clean-shaven, he could grow a mean beard quickly. Matt learned to hide his warm inviting nature with a slight scowl and contemplative thousand-yard stare. Cell phones now provided excellent ways to be rude and not draw notice; just be another idiot in the masses, he was taught.

  He doubted the desk clerk could accurately give a description of his physical appearance, nationality, or height. Matt knew something about that game from his former life as a Loss Prevention Manager. It was never easy to catch a crook when you look like a cop.

  He pulled back the curtains and the Mexico City Metropolitan Cathedral was in his immediate view. His window was lined up with the street that separated the huge square that was to the right. It ran at least a couple city blocks long and one wide, like a mini-Vatican. The street that was in front was actually part of a one way that ran around the square, the top of which separated the square and the church. He looked from his current vantage point and sure enough, the church exited right onto the street in front of the square. At this distance his target would stand little chance.

  He looked around the square, which was surrounded by buildings that were all obviously European influenced and all very high, and which afforded a lot of places from which to take a shot, that was for sure. He was watching people come and go and it wasn’t hard to see why they had chosen this spot.

  Matt heard a shuffling noise and looked to see an envelope slid under his door. He picked it up and found a key to a room one floor above. He picked up his bag and carefully headed to his destiny via the stairwell, making sure to keep his cap pulled down in case of some unknown camera.

  The new room was a suite, whereas the last room had been a king bed single. This room had a living room and a bedroom, plus the vantage point a floor higher provided. Matt immediately noticed there was a case on the bed. He also noticed the French doors that led to a private balcony. He unsecured the bolt and latches on the door and went out onto the balcony before checking his suitcase, as he knew what it held. The view was impeccable and he certainly wouldn’t miss from this distance. The car was parked half way up the block. After the shot he would use the staircase, walk to the car, and head out.

  He’d brought enough food and water in his backpa
ck that he would be fine until after he was done tomorrow—there would be no going out to enjoy the sights. TJAC’s Intel had his target walking out the gate out in front of the church every Sunday morning at 11:20 am. He would walk to the left once he was out of the church, away from where his assassin waited.

  Matt walked over to the suitcase and opened it. His modified Ruger 10/22 stared back at him. After Jim had taught him to kill with the big fifty calibers, Matt thought, that’s how things went down, with a boom. Maybe in a war. Jim taught him a lot of things go boom in a war, as there were plenty of reasons to make very long shots in a war. That was not the case here. Here he was going to make a shot in a crowded area and one wouldn’t have the luxury and firepower of the boom. With his Barrett, even if a target hid behind a cinderblock wall, it would not matter.

  This gun was different. Jim had made it from scratch so that Matt would be as “one with the gun” as possible. Actually, they had built two at once, the other one staying back in Seattle. They started with the stock. Jim had a friend who made every form of stocks: wood, plastic, metal, and graphite. Jim made Matt go through them one by one. He felt like Harry Potter picking a wand out before his trip to Hogwarts. Finally, he settled on a wood stock and then they went to see Jim’s other friend, the machinist. What they walked away with was this amazing gun. Having a 29-inch barrel was the key here.

  Once they got back and he attached the scope, they practiced using it on the range. Matt was stunned. Not only was this the most accurate gun he’d ever shot, it was also nearly silent, even with no enhancements. He estimated that the pellet rifle he’d used to use to keep the cats from killing birds at his mom’s feeder was louder than this rifle.

  Jim needed to sight it for distance, so they went into the backyard. The house was surround by the chain link fence, but the backyard had privacy slats put in so you couldn’t see through. He told Matt he would have to take the gun to open ground to truly set it and test it, but he could come close here.

  Their only neighbor was an old man a couple of parcels down and after that house, there was a deserted hill that was tall enough to catch the fallout of what they were about to do. Jim told Matt that the man had logged the hill to make money, but this was good for them, as there were no people hiding about. They had observed the old man previously—he was the type who was always trying to keep the local kids on bikes off his property.

  At the end of his property he had a big apple tree that hung over the back of his house and patio. Spotting with field glasses, Matt was instructed to pick out certain apples. The gun and the man were amazing. Jim wasn’t just dropping apples by shooting them through and through; he was dropping them off the stems. But the most incredible part was the sound. The spring sound was the most dominant, not the gun’s report. This gun was a silent killer.

  Then Jim blew Matt’s mind. He pulled out sub-sonic 20-grain ammo and the impossible happened. The gun got quieter. They switched positions and to Matt’s amazement, he dropped a few like that, too. This guy was like Russell Peltz in that regard, and he doubted he would ever be better, but soon he was going to give him a run for his money . . .

  They shot a few more apples until one hit the old man’s patio roof, then the old man came out on his porch and screamed out into the whole neighborhood, “You kids stop throwing rocks at my house!” That garnered a chuckle and they slunk back into the house to avoid possible detection. But the indelible mark had been imprinted. You don’t need boom to be a killer. A 22-long rifle was a deadly and accurate gun in the hands of the right person. Then the right person assembled the gun and began the long process of the wait.

  Matt double- and tripled-checked all aspects. The tripod was set, he turned out the lights, cracked the French doors and sat back deciding to “mock snipe” the passerbys out in the plaza, completely unaware of the scope they were under.

  His beard itched. Jim taught him to grow a week's worth of beard beforehand and shave it after settling in. He also carried a small shampoo container with bleach in it for the cleanup. If someone did remember him, it was with a beard, not clean-shaven.

  He lay in bed twisting and turning. The temperature wasn’t right, the pillow wasn’t right, the bed sucked. He finally fell asleep around two in the morning and there he was, right back in Vera’s bed. Before the current madness had started, sometimes the dream allowed him to look at her sleeping. Even in his dream his heart fluttered when he saw her, she had such a spell on him. Then the madness started. Tonight’s was especially bad and he awoke to the alarm clock at just past six in the morning. I guess it’s only four hours of sleep tonight.

  He had no computer or phone, so he didn’t have even a game to take his mind off things. He sat and stared at the ceiling, reliving the last two years, as he often did. Sometimes life just did that to you, it dragged you out of your comfort zone and shoved you into a new zone. Growing up in California, and especially being there in ’89 for the big quake, he knew what it was like to be fine one minute and fighting for your life the next.

  The second he went out that door after her, there was no turning back. He had replayed that parking lot a thousand times and a thousand times he came back to the same conclusion. None of this would have happened if those two inexperienced agents had verbally identified themselves. The agent who was trying to kill him was under the presumption that Matt was her partner, and that he was attacking his partner. That was his deadly mistake.

  The two must have had a hunch that she would try to get new clothes. How could it have not also occurred to them that a store detective might not let her do so. Most people never knew what it was like to actually die, but when the agent Matt was grappling with got free and spun around, he knew he was going to die and he still believed that just like in Jacobs Ladder he lived his whole existence in that moment. He broke out of his body, went to a parallel universe, lived a life there and came back before the agent could pull the trigger. She must have been very quick getting the gun from the man’s partner, a partner that he had just killed who a second earlier had been containing her in a choke hold. If she hadn’t, when he came back to this universe to face his fate, the bullet would have been flying for him. Instead, she changed his destiny as he had changed hers.

  The elation was short lived, though, because then she trained the gun on him. He now knew that had he not gotten up right then and made it for his car, she would have killed him. She admitted as much while they were talking post coitus, and it was no bluff. That was at three in the afternoon. By nine they were making love in Tahoe. Somehow, what transpired in that parking lot fused them. He just didn’t know how seriously at that moment.

  At the time, he was just trying to stay alive and trick her as he could tell that something was going on in her head with regard to him. He never for a moment thought he would actually fall for her. When they were attacked in the airport hanger a short time later, he’d never thought he would have the kind of feelings for her that he had. Uncontrollable outrage was exploding in his head the moment before he pulled the trigger that ended her attacker’s life. The man was on her, raping her, and its effect would have been the same as if it had been his wife of twenty years. From disgust to outrage to plain murder, he had always tried to reason out that it was all for God and Country, but the reality was, her outraged lover pulled that trigger every bit as much as the patriot Matt Hurst did.

  It took months for Frederick Tedesco to drag that out of him, to admit that he viewed her as “his” even at that point. He still resisted the implication, but the fact remained, for the next two years he was with her and Matt could not deny her indelible influence on him. From her looks to her smell, his mind wandered into her arms whenever he daydreamed, for she was unique beyond description.

  Although it was an amazing time, he also had become a household name, but not in a good way. For most of the last four years he was regarded as the worst traitor his country had ever had.

  Once he returned home after stopping them, the God stuf
f started up with him. Subtle at first, then not so subtle, he was being told to be part of a higher calling. He was to do something different than those two, but still have the kind of impact they did. Matt had decided to just let God guide him through and take the paths as they opened up, not to try to microscope it too much. If it really were his destiny, it wouldn’t matter what he did in the interim as long as he recognized the right path at the right time. Somehow it was that logic that had led him here today, to rid the world of another villain.

  The clock now read half past the hour. He had burned thirty minutes on that trek down memory lane. He got up and looked out on the square. The sun was breaking over the tops of the buildings and life was beginning to waken out there. The square seemed to never sleep, but it was sparsely populated at night compared to the day. The weather was in the sixties, not a cloud in the sky, a perfect day for a kill. He had bided his time and now the hour was eleven.

  He was in the final throes and it was twisting him, no matter how hard he tried to pretend it wasn’t. Eleven fifteen. He was on the threshold and there was no turning back, a lot of people were counting on him to do the right thing. Then it happened, his target was in view. Fernando Vargas walked out with his entourage, but it wasn’t the usual guards and such; instead it was the largest family he’d ever seen.

  They broke off to the left and were inside the outer fence, closer to Matt’s position. There were at least thirty of them, but he suspected it to be more. Vargas was a sitting duck. Soon the arranged distraction was to go off and that was Matt’s cue. A blue van came around the turn that ran across the front of the church and Matt saw what looked like a red belt thrown out the window, only it was smoking. The next thing Matt knew, the firecrackers were going off at the edge of the Square.

  At first it startled everyone, but then all the kids in Vargas’s family ran to the fence to watch the excitement; all except one. Matt guessed that she was the man’s granddaughter, as she was only about three and Vargas appeared to be nearing sixty. The girl was adorable in her yellow and white Sunday school dress with a yellow bow through her hair. Apparently she had an aversion to loud noises and ran to Grandpa when it started. He had a clean shot on his target . . . but the man was holding his granddaughter.