The Secret Target

by Dean Atwood

  The city’s camera installation plans didn’t worry her. An LED flashlight or infrared laser could temporarily hide a person from view, assuming they knew where the cameras were installed — which she did. Better yet, there were electronic devices available that could detect the presence of security cameras and automatically disrupt them to prevent the person carrying the device from being identified. The lieutenant knew the government agencies were already using them for their own purposes, so why shouldn’t a private citizen like her have the same right to be unseen?

  Situated midway on the downtown mall was an open area with several benches positioned on the red brick surface. It was intended to be a place for shoppers to mingle or rest while they were visiting the various stores and restaurants. However, it was frequently commandeered by Lieutenant Mad and her ragtag cohorts for impromptu meetings. When she arrived, the other three were already seated.

  “How’s it hanging, Dr. Bit?” the lieutenant said.

  The young man she was addressing appeared to be in his early thirties. His face was gaunt with a pointy nose protruding from the middle, upon which rested a pair of black, plastic rimmed glasses. His tousled hair looked like a dust mop, resting on his head. The striped, polo shirt he wore was buttoned all the way to the top and hung loosely over his baggy jeans. He had long, skinny legs, which were outstretched as he slouched in his seat. Dangling off from each foot was a Birkenstock sandal.

  He looked up from his iPad and replied to the lieutenant’s question, “It’s hanging loose from lack of use. How are they jiggling, Lieutenant?”

  “The girls are having their downs and ups in their size C cups.” They both smiled at their sophomoric banter.

  “How’s the Jefferson Theater room working out?”

  “Not bad, but I wish there was a shower or tub available in the basement.”

  “Sorry, best I could do on short notice. I told you that you could crash at my place for as long as you want. I have a shower and a jacuzzi.”

  “Thanks, but I like my privacy.”

  “You could move into the room over the garage. It’s private.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Anything of significance happening in our little city … or the world?” Dr. Bit said.

  “Something’s percolating. Why else would I be here, wasting my time with you degenerates?”

  “Why don’t you fill us in and tell us how we can help?”

  “The government is at it again. They’re going to use frequency mind control to go after a CEO of a high-tech company.”

  “How’d you find that out?”

  “There’s an NSA analyst living nearby. I accessed her home network. You’d think somebody in her line of work would have better computer security.”

  “Why do you need my help? It sounds like you already have access?”

  “The information wasn’t complete. It was her own personal notes from the meeting of a task force, which she referred to as Project Typhon. I doubt she was supposed to document it, but she strikes me as one of those girls who was a goody-two-shoes in school. You know the type. The ones who always took perfect notes. She’s probably still obsessive compulsive about taking notes and dreams at night about not being prepared for a test.”

  “What do you want me to uncover that she didn’t reveal in her notes?”

  “For starters, I need names. She mentions a task force but isn’t specific about what they’re trying to accomplish. She refers to a CEO but doesn’t include the person’s name or identify the company. If I can find out who they’re going after, I’ll be able to warn the person. Also, I’d like to know who’s behind this attack on a private citizen and what the real motive is. That naïve, pretty-girl NSA agent is probably an ignorant pawn in a shadow agency’s game.”

  Dr. Bit emerged out of his slouch and sat up straight. “You’ve got my attention,” he said. “I can go back to my network hub and crawl around in the government databases to see what I can find out about Project Typhon.”

  “I need L. Ron’s help, too. Is he on planet earth today or in outer space?” the lieutenant asked.

  “He appears to be one of us, but who knows for sure?”

  A young man with Asian eyes looked up from his iPad and said, “You two do realize I’m sitting right here listening to everything you’re saying, don’t you?”

  Dr. Bit said, “I saw your body, but I wasn’t sure whether you were occupying it, or it had been possessed by an alien.”

  “You can make fun of me if you want to, but you’ll be laughing out of the other corner of your mouth when the truth comes out that aliens are among us and the government is covering it up.”

  L. Ron Chen is a Chinese American, who was born in the USA, and named after L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the Scientology Church. He received his Doctor of Physics at the age of twenty. When he left Scientology at twenty-one, his parents ostracized him and several years later when he became obsessed with conspiracy theories about alien visitations, he lost his standing in academic circles. Oddly enough, he had become a tenured professor at UVA before he became an embarrassment to the school. Officially, he was still a professor, although he didn’t teach. That suited L. Ron just fine. He didn’t like teaching anyway. His arrangement allowed him to use school resources to research whatever he wanted, whether it was mainstream or not.

  “You could be right about a government sponsored alien cover-up,” Lieutenant Mad said. “The one thing the four of us have in common is a healthy mistrust of big government and their propaganda. Dr. Bit and I find it difficult to believe there are aliens among us, but we’re keeping an open mind.”

  “I make allowances for those of you who haven’t been visited,” L. Ron said magnanimously. “What can I do to help you with your current operation, Lieutenant?”

  “Although the notes I obtained weren’t specific, they did label the company as a defense contractor who specializes in laser technology. Once Dr. Bit comes up with the name of the CEO, can you do some research into the company, so we can figure out what the ultimate purpose of the frequency mind control attack is?”

  L. Ron’s eyes lit up. “Laser technology is one of my specialties. There are lots of options to consider for the use and misuse of lasers, not the least of which is the development of laser weapons to ward off an alien attack. I know you’re skeptical, but I’m aware of several initiatives that are aimed at preparing us for a hostile encounter of the third kind. These projects involve government and private sector partnerships. I’ll be happy to work with Dr. Bit to find the connection between the laser technology company being investigated and the potential victim of the mind control device.”

  “I knew I could count on you, L. Ron,” the lieutenant said before turning her attention to the third cohort.

  “Rasputin, have you been listening to us?”

  A grisly looking man with a long, straggly beard and greasy hair with a center part, looked at her with his piercing, blue eyes, but didn’t say anything.

  Lieutenant Mad wasn’t sure how Gregory Raspanti got his nickname. It could have been because his name was similar to the infamous Russian’s or because he looked like him, or both. She’d first heard about him when she was in army intelligence. He had a reputation as an elite assassin. He’d never told her why he’d retired or how he ended up in Charlottesville and she hadn’t asked.

  “Did you hear me, Rasputin?”

  He nodded his head.

  “I think there’s a contract killer stalking someone in our neighborhood. Have you seen anyone suspicious?”

  Rasputin smiled with an unintended maniacal look in his fiery eyes. “I’ve seen him,” he said.

  “You have? What does he look like?”

  “He’s a Hispanic guy with a scar on his face shaped like a lightning bolt. They call him Scarlatino. He’s an evil man. He enjoys killing. It’s like an aphrodisiac to him.”

  “I think his prey is either an FBI agent or NSA Analyst, who live together near the
downtown mall. Does that make any sense to you?”

  Rasputin shrugged. “If he’s making a hit against an employee of either of those agencies, there’s a high probability he’s working for somebody within US Intelligence. It could be one of the sixteen legitimate organizations or one of the hidden ones.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because almost all of Scarlatinos’s clients are within US intelligence. He’s crossed over to do individual hits for private clients a few times, so we can’t rule it out, but it’s very seldom that he does that.”

  “Do you know him personally?”

  “We don’t have an assassin’s club, if that’s what you mean. Elite assassins work alone. They don’t make friends because it’s too risky. But, they do have to be part of a network to be able to solicit work and on rare occasions to be able to bring in another professional for assistance. Believe me, asking for help is a last resort. Assassins are loners and will do almost anything to avoid sharing responsibility for a job. The reason I’m telling you this is because I was contacted by Scarlatino several years ago, before I retired, and he asked me to assist him with a job. That doesn’t make us lifelong friends, but it means we had success together and he trusts that I’m in the same line of work as him and not an undercover cop or paid assassin out to get him.”

  “Do you know how to contact him?”

  Rasputin shrugged and said, “Maybe.”

  “Can you try?”

  “It won’t be easy. I’ll have to create a story to explain why I’m reaching out to him. And, if he does contact me, I can’t ask him straightforward questions like why’s he in Charlottesville, who’s he working for, and who’s he about to kill. He’ll be very sensitive to inquiries that are too personal. If he suspects I’m coming after him, he’ll try to get to me first.”

  “Are you saying it’s too risky for you to try to contact him?”

  “What I’m saying is that I’ll have to be very careful or he’ll try to take us all out before we can get to him.”

  “I know it’s asking a lot,” the lieutenant said, “but can you see what you can find out without raising a red flag?”

  Rasputin nodded his head in reply, but didn’t say the word, “yes”.

  “That would be great.”

  “Before we disperse,” Dr. Bit said to the lieutenant, “I’m curious why you’re getting involved in this.”

  “I’m trying to prevent someone from going through the same mental torture I did.”

  “Are you sure it isn’t because of that FBI agent I’ve seen you have coffee with?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve seen you look at the guy. I think you’re going gaga over him.”

  “When have you seen us together? Are you following me?”

  “No … of course not. I happened to be near the Mudhouse one morning and saw you through the window.”

  Rasputin and L. Ron glanced at each other. It was obvious to them that Dr. Bit had a thing for the lieutenant, but it was equally apparent that the lieutenant was oblivious to it and had no such feelings for him.

  “Don’t get all sensitive,” Dr. Bit said. “If it makes you feel any better, he looked like he was into you, too.”

  “You’re crazy. He’s into the blonde-bombshell type. He lives with the NSA Agent, whose computer I hacked. Besides, he doesn’t have what it takes to handle a woman like me.”

  Chapter 7

  Q uinton lifted the scope to his eye and resumed surveillance. At least his phone call had physically separated Blaire from her friend, whoever he was. She walked a few steps ahead of her companion and pointed in the direction of her car. It didn’t surprise QT that she was driving. Blaire and he were both control freaks. They constantly competed, in a friendly way. When they went out together, they took turns driving. Control of the TV remote was governed by the first-come-first-serve rule. The one who lost possession of the device sometimes withdrew to a private corner and watched a Netflix movie on their iPad. In bed, they were like pro wrestlers, struggling for dominance. One time, while striving for the coveted position on top, they rolled off the bed onto the floor, where they continued their battle. It was a turn-on for Quinton, but he was beginning to wonder whether she desired a more subordinate man.

  Like most new cars, Blaire’s doors unlocked whenever she lifted the door handle and the key was in close proximity. But, old habits were hard to break. When she was about twenty feet from her car, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her remote key to unlock the doors. As she did, the key chain slipped out of her hand and fell to the ground. She bent over to pick it up. Quinton didn’t like the way the man was looking at her while she was bending over. It wasn’t unusual for other men to admire Blaire’s figure, but for some reason, this time it angered Quinton. He adjusted his scope to get a clearer view.

  Two shots rang out. A surprised look came across the mystery man’s face. He touched the blood flowing out of his chest for a second before he collapsed. Blaire went down to her knees and looked in the direction of the shots’ origination point. Quinton felt like she was staring straight into his eyes, even though he knew she was too far away to see his face. Two more shots fired. The bullets hit the pavement where Blaire was kneeling a split second after she scooted underneath her BMW.

  Quinton tossed his rifle onto the passenger seat, pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster, and opened his door. A couple hundred yards above and behind him, he saw a man with a rifle, standing next to a white SUV. The man fired three more shots at Blaire’s BMW. Quinton fired his revolver at the assailant. His Glock was only accurate to about thirty yards, so the shots missed their mark, but they grabbed the assassin’s attention sufficiently to force him to toss his rifle into the SUV and drive away. Quinton moved to the front of his car and rested his arms on the hood, poised to shoot. As the SUV passed by him, he emptied his magazine into the driver’s door and window. The vehicle’s windows were tinted and bulletproof, so the assassin wasn’t visible, and the bullets caused no damage.

  Quinton slid into his car and picked up his rifle to use the scope to check on Blair. She was already driving away in her BMW. He was surprised she wasn’t hanging around for help to arrive, considering how friendly she appeared to be with the man on the ground. He was uncertain whether the best course of action was to find Blaire or chase after the SUV. It would help if he knew whether Blaire was trying to escape or intercept the assassin.

  Quinton decided to drive toward Route 29 and improvise as needed. Carefully considering outcomes before acting wasn’t his strong point. It was up to the swivel-chair, office dwellers to analyze and plan. He was a field agent. Adapting to situations quickly was a matter of life and death for him. Of course, if he’d been more contemplative before deciding to spy on Blaire in the first place, he would have avoided the entire conflict. Then again, if he wasn’t there to intervene, Blaire might have been killed.

  No time for second guessing. Now was the time to act.

  Chapter 8

  B laire’s hands were shaking so hard she had to squeeze her fingers tightly together to keep a steady grip on the steering wheel. She couldn’t get the image of Jeremy’s dead body out of her mind. A surprised look was emblazoned on his facial expression.

  The gate arm automatically raised as she approached it, and she went beneath it without even glancing at the security guard inside the guardhouse. Apparently, nobody had discovered what had happened to Jeremy yet because the facility would be on lockdown if they had. As she continued down the driveway, she began sobbing, but stopped when she felt her car swerving as she took the turn too fast onto route 29. She slowed down to the speed limit and tried to make sense out of what had happened.

  For the first time since she’d started working for the NSA, the job felt real. When she was working as an inside Cyber Analyst, it was like playing a game. She’d listened to total strangers’ personal phone calls, read their emails, and learned their deepe
st, darkest secrets. And then, the information had been used to kill them, send them to prison, destroy their reputation, blackmail them, or held in files to be used against them later. Some of the people had deserved what they’d gotten … others had not. Either way, it had never occurred to her to question what her actions were doing to someone else and their family. It was like a video game. It wasn’t real.

  Moving into the field position was an even bigger rush than spying on people’s personal lives from inside. It was a thrill to execute a carefully created plan to break into somebody’s home and install equipment to spy on them. The potential of getting caught, excited her. It was a power trip. She could do whatever she wanted because there were no real consequences. If she got caught, it would be embarrassing to explain to her superiors what had happened, but it wasn’t like she was a burglar, who’d go to jail for breaking and entering. But, today in the parking lot was different. Jeremy had been murdered and someone had tried to kill her. This was a full dose of reality.

  In her mind, she retraced her steps through the parking lot. She’d been distracted, when she’d first left the building, thinking about her conversation with Special Agent Warren. Jeremy had put his arm around her and had been flirting, trying to convince her to go back to his place with him. She’d been playing along with him, becoming more intimate, as Special Agent Warren had told her to do. Maybe, she was even considering accepting Jeremy’s offer. And then unexpectedly, QT had called. Hearing his voice had made her feel like a cheating girlfriend. It almost felt like he was there watching her every move. Guilt does funny things to the mind. She’d pulled away from Jeremy and had been heading toward her car when she’d dropped her keys. She’d heard the two shots, but thought they were car backfires until she’d looked behind her and had seen Jeremy fall to the ground. Survival instincts had taken over. She’d taken a split second to look in the direction of the shooter before rolling under her car. She’d seen two SUV’s. The one closest was gray, like QT’s, and the other one was white. From which vehicle had the shots been fired? She couldn’t be certain.