NINE
About ninety miles south of Atlanta, in a small town named Butler, a minister was leading an assembled group in the final graveside prayer. Surrounded by friends of the family, Garrett stood behind Charles’ parents, his hands on their shoulders. It was so hard for him to look them in their eyes, knowing it should have been he and not their son, lying there.
As the service adjourned, Garrett remained until all of the family’s friends had paid their condolences. When the last of them had finished, he walked around in front of the grieving couple. Bending over his old friend’s mother, he hugged her, not quite knowing how to express his sorrow over her son’s loss. As if sensing this, she hugged him back and kissed him on the cheek. Standing, he took Charles’ father’s hand.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” the older man said looking straight into Garrett’s eyes. The words pierced Garrett’s heart like a javelin. Those words, and the look the elder man leveled, steeled Garrett, and at that moment he knew for certain what he had to do. He had been mulling it over these past three days, but now he was resolved. He bid Charles’ parents farewell and left the small Georgia town, heading back to Atlanta.
This had been the second funeral in two days. Only the day before had he said his good-byes to Anna. No one else had stepped forward to claim the remains, so Garrett had made the arrangements. He had never been to a funeral where he alone was the only one present. Thinking about it now, both saddened and angered Garrett. How could a man deprive his own flesh and blood of their mother? Anna had tried to warn him about Simon, and he had passed it off as some sort of fantasy. Now he knew she had been right. He also knew the killer was long gone.
As Garrett continued his drive home, he thought back on everything else that had transpired since that horrible night. Only moments after the two explosions, paramedics checking to make sure he was all right had shaken Garrett back to reality. Soon after he assured them that he was okay, he was approached by a police officer who had been among the first on the scene. Following protocol, he detained Garrett and began interviewing him until the GBI and ATF agents arrived and took over.
Garrett had remained closed mouth and evasive until the ATF agent in charge started questioning him. He realized they would soon discover that one of the destroyed cars was his, so he had stopped stonewalling and gave his statement to the agent. When he was finished, the ATF agent closed his notebook and challenged Garrett.
“So, you are trying to tell us that this was all because you were having an affair with this guy’s wife?” he asked with sarcasm in his voice. “Pardon my use of words, but wouldn’t you consider blowing up two cars a bit of an overkill?”
“You wouldn’t be leaving anything out, would you?” Agent Spanos of the FBI jumped in. Spanos had arrived in the middle of the interview and appeared to be the most skeptical of all those assembled.
The fact was that Garrett had been holding back. He had not told them what Anna had relayed to him regarding Simon and his organization. Thinking quickly, he had decided to hold on to that bit of information to use as a bargaining tool. Garrett first wanted as much information from the authorities as he could get. He decided he would have to cooperate and ‘share’ that tidbit, but only after he gleaned as much information from them as he could.
Garrett addressed agent Spanos, “I may have something else that could help, but I’d like to wait until tomorrow morning.” Garrett paused. “I’m not feeling up to it right now.”
Spanos looked at Garrett, who returned the stare, and shrugged.
“Sure,” Spanos said, “We’ll post some men outside your house and we can talk tomorrow.” It was his turn to pause. Still staring at Garrett, he finished. “We wouldn’t want anyone to come and finish the job tonight, would we?” The question only thinly covered the insinuation.
Garrett nodded in ascent, “Alright. Probably not a bad idea,” knowing full well that Spanos wanted to keep his eye on him just as much as he wanted to protect him.
Garrett returned home that night and found that, even with mild sedatives, he couldn’t sleep more than twenty minutes at a time. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the explosions played back in his mind. He would wake up, still not believing it. He just could not reconcile the fact that the woman he had loved was dead; possibly because he of the way he had handled the situation. And, because Garrett had not believed her, both she and his best friend were conveniently disposed of, with no thoughts to the loved ones they left behind. And what about him? He had involved Charles, although unintentionally, in this sordid affair, without fully sharing his suspicions and the potential dangers with him. “What sort of friend are you?” he berated himself, still mourning the devastating loss.
The next day he had returned to the FBI offices to finish telling them what he knew. When he walked into the briefing room, he had immediately sensed the tension. As Garrett took a seat, Spanos didn’t hesitate. He stood and grabbed the first of a group of files sitting on the conference table. He threw it down before Garrett and spoke.
“We’ve been busy working on this case all night long, and guess what? The explosives and the technique used in these bombings match those that took the lives of some very powerful world leaders over the past four years. Why would you get the same type of attention? Hmm?” Spanos glared at Garrett as he grabbed another file and again threw it down in front of him.
“So, we made some inquiries regarding anyone operating within the world of known assassins who also fit your description of Simon, and we came up with a possible match.” This man is reputed to broker out jobs to assassins all over the world. We have a grainy photo of him taken by one of Interpol’s agents shortly before her untimely death. Care to look at it?” Spanos almost demanded as he thrust the file with the photo forward. “Is this what you wanted to tell us last night?”
Spanos was clearly agitated. Garrett took the file and opened it, looking at the photo. After a moment, he responded.
“That could be him,” he said, looking back up at Spanos.
“That could be him? Or it is him?” Spanos pressed.
“It is him,” Garrett said, knowing now what was in the remaining folder, which Spanos held in his hand. Spanos held onto the file as he started to pace back and forth, staring at Garrett. Finally, he spoke. “And now we come to the part that really gets interesting,” he said, pausing momentarily. “Yesterday, I question a victim. You. Who just happens to get involved in a love triangle, resulting in two cars getting blown up, and two people splattered around an entire city block? This happens to have “possibly” been committed by the husband of your lover, who we now we find just happens to be the suspected leader of a den of assassins.” Spanos took a breath and continued. “And then I find out this morning that our innocent witness, you Mr. Adams, who just happened to get involved with these people, trained with and worked for the CIA, and supposedly left the agency some ten years ago.”
Spanos was beginning to lose control. Garrett remained calm. The FBI agent continued as he leaned over the table and placed his face within inches of Garrett’s.
“You know that the CIA has no license here in the states, mister. I had better not find out that you’ve been operating in MY jurisdiction or I’ll have your ass in Levinworth faster than you can say Kansas!” he spat.
Garrett stifled a sarcastic response. The man was making him angry. He responded, looking straight into Spanos’ eyes. “You can check with anyone in the agency. I was pushed out, asked to leave. I left that life behind ten years ago,” Garrett said through clenched teeth. “I have no contacts, friends, or acquaintances at the agency anymore, nor have I any desire to re-establish any. My life is an open book to you and your investigators.” Garrett looked down at the table. “I just want this son of a bitch caught so my friends can rest in peace.”
Spanos stared down at Garrett, unconvinced. After a moment, Garrett stood and walked out of the room, without uttering another
word.
* * *
Two days had passed since that meeting and Garrett had been under FBI ‘protection’ every since. He shook himself back to the present as he pulled into his driveway. Two of the FBI agents who had been assigned to him, pulled into the driveway after him. It had been a long, uneventful drive for the occupants of the two vehicles. Garrett got out of his car and went inside, closing the garage door behind him. The agents waiting at the house took up positions outside, along with the two who had just followed him home. The bureau wasn’t taking any chances with Garrett. Simon had to know the attempt had failed. He would try again; Garrett was sure of that. The killer had made a grave error. He had let his heart get in the way of business and allowed Garrett to see him up close. Garrett was a marked man and he knew it, but this time there would be protection. Garrett also knew that the FBI didn’t want him out of their sight. As bad as they wanted to catch Simon and his people, they also wanted to keep an eye on Garrett, just in case he was still an active CIA operative simply posing as inactive. They were very protective of their jurisdictional prerogatives.
He went to bed early that evening, hoping to catch up on some rest. It wasn’t long before the stress of the past few days caught up with Garrett and he passed into a deep slumber.
* * *
Garrett was woken from his sleep. He looked at his clock; it read 4:10 a.m. He didn’t know what woke him, but something didn’t feel right. He rolled out of bed and stood to the side of the window. Slowly separating the blind, he tried to spot the FBI agents posted outside. He couldn’t see the man he should have been able to see. Suddenly, he spotted a shadow moving around the front of the house, towards the rear. Adrenaline exploded into his system. Garret was alert to the fact that the shadow he had seen did not move like an FBI agent on patrol. The assassins were making another move on him, now! Garrett knew he would have to be very lucky if he were going to survive the night.
Striding to his closet, he quickly threw on a dark jumpsuit. He pushed on the rear wall of his closet, again, revealing the small, hidden niche behind the row of neat clothes.
On the wall before him hung some of the tools of his former trade. Garrett started to reach for some of the weapons, but hesitated, knowing that once he touched them there was no going back. He knew that once he committed himself, the life he had built over the past ten years would evaporate into a dream-like memory. His hands started to move again. Grabbing two knives he strapped one around his left leg and another around his right ankle. Then he reached for his 9mm pistol and screwed on a silencer. Finally, almost as an afterthought, he grabbed a two-foot section of piano wire with handles attached at either end. If he could make it to the back bedroom, Garrett could get out the window onto the roof of his covered porch, and have a chance of getting away alive.
He went to the door of his second story bedroom and waited, barely breathing. Then he heard it, a slight creaking on the stairs. If he moved now, he had the advantage, but only for mere seconds moment. Taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling, he reached for the doorknob. Throwing the door back, he opened fire to the left on his would-be assassin. Two bullets hit the assassin’s chest; the third found its mark in the middle of his forehead. Garrett bolted through the hall and into the back bedroom right towards the rear window. If they had a sniper positioned covering the back of the house, Garrett would have to be both quick and charmed.
Not missing a step, he covered his face with his arms and dove through the window. The crashing sound of exploding glass pierced the stillness of the night as he landed on the roof of the porch. He rolled towards the edge and, grabbing the gutter, swung down, dropping onto the ground 14 feet below. Suddenly, there was a searing pain in his left forearm. Garrett ran for the cover of trees as bullets exploded the earth around him. Zigzagging, he made it to the wooded area on the rear of his property. Still running, he dropped into the creek bed, which ran along one side and rear of his property. With his back to the creek bank, he paused for a moment to look at his arm. It was just a deep flesh wound, but it was painful nevertheless.
Garrett reached down into the soft creek bed and grabbed a handful of silt, which he then rubbed on his face. Peeking over the edge of the bank, he looked quickly to see if he could spot the sniper. He could see nothing in the trees above. Looking back at the house he saw the four dead FBI agents all stacked up, like cordwood, near the rear corner. If these assassins worked the way Garrett thought, there would be a total of four, two snipers to cover the house and two on foot. One was dead. That left three to either avoid or confront.
His initial reaction was to get out of there as fast as he could, but he hesitated. This could be his chance. If he could capture one of the assassins alive, he might be able to get a lead on where to look for Simon. Garrett stiffened. On the ground along the tree line, he could see the telltale red spot of a laser sight. It was sweeping back and forth into the tree line looking for him. Then there were two of them, each tracing back and forth into the trees. Garrett tried to judge from the motion of the dots where the snipers were. Looking up and to his left, he watched where he thought the sniper in the rear should be. “There!” Garrett thought. One sniper was in his neighbor’s tree. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Garrett detected motion. He threw himself back away from the bank and fired to his right. The second assassin got off one round in return which went wide. Garrett fired off three more rounds, as the body fell backwards into the creek.
Garrett’s heart almost exploded. The murmuring of the creek’s running water had masked the sound of his attacker’s advance upstream until it was almost too late. Garrett rolled to his left and lunged back into the creek bank as bullets exploded the earth all around him. The two snipers were firing where they had seen the muzzle flashes. After a moment, the firing stopped. They would soon know that a second of their team had fallen and one of the two remaining snipers would have to leave his position to pursue Garrett. He hoped it would be the one in the front of the house, since he already knew where the one in the rear was.
Garrett started moving towards his neighbor’s house. About 20 yards downstream, he stopped and peaked over the edge of the creek bed. There in the trees in front of him, was the sniper. He was still sweeping the area Garrett had just left. “So, it would be the sniper in the front of the house who would be advancing on him,” Garrett thought. This also suggested to him that the sniper in the tree before him was most likely the team leader. There is a universal protocol that teams like these follow, and they appeared to be following suit.
Garrett looked back along the creek bed and found the spot he wanted. He quietly made his way to his destination point, holstered his pistol and grabbed the piano wire from his pocket. He pressed his back into the recess of the creek bank and pulled the ivy, growing abundantly on the bank, around him.
Garrett waited for what seemed like hours, but in fact was only moments. Then he saw him! The third assassin to his left was quietly making his way around the bend in the creek. He was crouching low, looking down at the fallen team member at his feet. Holding the rifle site to his eye, he swept the area. Garrett’s heart pounded as the red dot moved along the ivy he had just placed over him. The sniper started moving towards him slowly, sweeping the area as he moved. The closer he got the more somersaults Garrett’s stomach performed. No amount of training could stop the flow of adrenaline at moments like this.
The sniper was within four feet of Garrett now and had just passed by him. He waited to spring. Suddenly, in one sweeping motion, Garrett leapt from the bank and wrapped the wire around his assailant’s neck. He pulled the cord tight, feeling it tear through flesh. The assassin began to struggle, but it was over in an instant and Garrett slowly lowered the body into the creek. He left the garroted killer and stood. Now, there was only one assassin left and Garrett wanted him alive, if only for a moment. Just long enough to get the information he wanted.
Garrett made his way back d
own the creek bed past the spot where the fourth assassin was positioned in the tree. He quietly crawled out of the creek to a spot behind a tree, about ten feet from the base of the rifleman’s tree. He watched as the sniper brought his wrist to his mouth and spoke in whispers. After checking his earpiece twice, the sniper harnessed his rifle and started down the tree. When he was five feet from the ground, Garrett made his move.
Grabbing both knives, he sprang up and ran towards the tree. With the knife in his right hand, Garrett attacked with a sweeping motion severing the Achilles tendon on his attacker’s right leg. He then plunged the knife in his left hand into the back of the assassin’s left leg. The sniper screamed in pain as he fell the final few feet to the ground. He rolled and tried to bring his rifle to bear on Garrett, but Garrett was on top of him now, wrestling for the gun.
Garrett could smell the breath of the sniper as they struggled for the weapon. After a moment, he was able to reach the clip and release it, feeling it fall away from them as they continued to struggle on the ground. Then, with much effort, Garrett squeezed the trigger and fired the remaining round from the rifle. Now he stood and jerked the rifle away, as the assassin on the ground growled. The killer pulled the knife from his leg and tried to stand, but Garrett had done his work well. The sniper could only manage to get one leg under him. Garrett stepped back and pulled out his pistol, leveling it at his assailant’s head.
“Where can I find Simon?” Garret demanded.
“Go to hell,” the assassin spat.
“Wrong answer.” Garrett pointed the silenced pistol and shot one of the assassin’s kneecaps.
Screaming, the man fell to the ground, cursing Garrett as he writhed in pain. Garrett almost laughed.
He asked again, coldly, “Where can I find Simon?”
The man on the ground now knew he was going to die, but he wanted it to be quick. He gasped, “Paris”.
“Where in Paris?” Garrett pressed.
Millenium Strike Page 8