Rudy allowed himself a little smile and then plowed ahead. “So, when do you want to take him out?” he asked, hoping against hope Big Tony would assign him the task of eliminating Standiford.
“Whoa, slow down there, big fella. Let’s just think about this for a few minutes, shall we? Consider all the angles.” Big Tony Mercadante had some anger issues, but he had been on top of the Vegas family for a long time and Rudy knew there was a shrewd, calculating brain under all the brawn and bluster.
Tony propped one elbow on his desk and rested his head in his hand. He stroked the stubble on his chin while he mapped out his options. “There’s no question now that we gotta do him, especially if you’re right and he killed Sammy’s broad. But I’m thinking . . .”
“Yeah?” Rudy was genuinely curious now. It wasn’t like Big Tony to be squeamish.
“I’m thinking it might be best if we farm this one out. If we hit Blake ourselves, it will just draw attention to the fact that he’s our guy. The wrong people will naturally wonder why we had to do him, and wondering about that could bring his foolishness with the little bitch to Sammy’s attention, and that’s what we want to avoid. Sammy’s old and decrepit, but he ain’t stupid. He can still put two and two together, and he’s gonna wonder what Kathy was doing—or who she was doing—in Vegas in the first place. But if we stay away from the dirty work and get a little lucky, maybe Sammy’ll never know for sure it was one of our guys that killed his wife.”
Rudy shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know. Blake’s been flashing her around town like a fucking diamond ring. The minute Sammy hears she’s dead and starts sniffing around, Standiford’s name is bound to come up. It might be better to show the old bastard that we took care of business. Maybe that’ll mean something to him.”
“We can always convince Sammy we contracted the hit afterward if we have to. But you never know how deep Sammy’s going to dig. Maybe he was tired of the old ball and chain anyway and ain’t really going to be too concerned who killed her. But regardless, I think we need to stay as far away from Standiford as we can, at least until we can see which way the wind’s blowing with Shotgun Sammy.”
Rudy started to speak and Tony continued, almost as if talking to himself. He nodded as he spoke. “What we need is for The Stupid Horny Bastard to meet with an accident unrelated to his employment, and the sooner the better. For that to happen, we need to hire an independent contractor.”
6
It didn’t take long for Jack to hear from Mr. Stanton after completing the job in Somerville. Although books and movies were rife with stories about assassins, the reality was that there weren’t very many around, and the number of potential contracts always seemed to exceed the number of specialists competent to carry out those contracts.
Sure, it was distressingly easy to find someone willing to end another person’s life in exchange for cash, and often not that much of it. But the ranks of professionals, men and women who approached their work with diligence and treated the taking of life with the respect the calling entailed, were few and far between.
Jack had heard about a guy who operated out of White Plains—a stamp collector, if he recalled correctly—but he had never met the man and didn’t think he would ever want to. The essence of survival in his line of work—besides competence—was secrecy, so it wasn’t like there were yearly assassin conventions, where you could glad-hand your fellow professional killers and swap war stories at the bar over drinks.
And that was just fine with Jack Sheridan. He wasn’t a professional killer because he enjoyed bloodshed or the taking of human life. He had simply fallen into the line of work during his two stints in the Army, where he had served in a unit so secret, so unknown, that its governance didn’t even fall under any single branch of the service.
Jack had traveled the world over, spending much of his time on missions in the Middle East. He eliminated radicals in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, Iran, Saudi Arabia and other countries. Allies or hated enemies of the United States, it made no difference. He had been chosen for recruitment based on his athleticism, his skill utilizing different types of weapons, his average looks and his relentlessly tight-lipped demeanor.
By the time he had mustered out of his secret unit, Jack’s reputation as one of most lethal assassins in the U.S. arsenal was cemented forever, not that anyone outside the world of Black Ops could ever know.
After returning to civilian life and making his home in Southern New Hampshire, Jack had floundered. He found work as a truck driver, a grocery store clerk and an apple picker among other jobs, discovering along the way that the traits that had served him so well in Black Ops were not necessarily the ones that tended to be valued in civilian life.
Two years into his Army retirement, he had been approached by a shadowy figure calling himself “Mr. Stanton.” The man was of indeterminate age and carried himself with a recognizably military bearing. Mr. Stanton was not his real name, and Jack knew better than to inquire as to what his real name might be.
Mr. Stanton offered Jack a proposition: employment as a contractor working for The Organization, a group whose name would never be more specific than that and whose ranks were made up of a select few men—and women—with Jack’s unique and specific skill set.
His job description would be simple. He would eliminate evil people, those whose actions had made them highly dangerous to the population and who for whatever reason—money, connections, status—were considered untouchable by society’s traditional arbiters of justice.
“You will have full autonomy on your assignments and total discretion on whether to accept or reject an offered assignment. You may reject any offered assignment for any reason whatsoever and will never be second-guessed,” Mr. Stanton had said.
It was not a typical job offer, obviously. Jack was mystified at how the shadowy “Mr. Stanton” had learned of his involvement in the blackest of military Black Ops units when only a handful of people in the defense community were even aware of the unnamed unit’s existence.
Obviously the man had some serious connections, and Jack’s immediate suspicion was that the U.S. government was somehow involved in the operations of The Organization. His suspicions had never been resolved one way or the other, and ultimately he had decided the answer was irrelevant. This civilian Black Ops unit was just as secret as the military one had been, just as disciplined, just as well funded.
And just as necessary.
Jack had told Mr. Stanton to take a hike after the initial meeting, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized the offer might be just what he needed. He had never found a niche in the civilian world, and the more he watched the TV news, and the more he read newspaper and Internet reports of the savagery a certain percentage of the human race was capable of inflicting on weaker members of the species, the more he realized a group like The Organization—if disciplined and professional—could serve a vital role in modern society.
After days of soul-searching and considering the offer from every conceivable angle, Jack decided that when Mr. Stanton approached him again—and he would approach again, Jack had been involved in the world of intelligence operations far too long to think he had seen the last of the man—he would this time accept the job and return to a world he thought he had left behind forever.
Despite the fact that he had wrestled for years with the morality of killing others—or perhaps because of that fact—Jack realized that using his unique abilities to help rid society of its most dangerous sociopaths was likely the only way he would ever be able to contribute something tangible to that society.
He knew many would disagree with his stance on morality. He understood that they might be right. But he decided that he was comfortable with his part in the career he was about to return to, and that was all anyone could expect out of this life.
That had been eight years ago, and exactly as he had known would happen, a month or so after he reached his decision, Mr. Stanton had once again appeare
d out of nowhere with the identical job offer.
And Jack had accepted.
He had had good days and bad days in the intervening eight years, but had never had trouble sleeping at night—not due to his career path, anyway—and doubted he ever would. He had seen too much of human nature to doubt the correctness of his decision. In his own odd and admittedly violent way, he was contributing to a safer world.
***
Jack had returned three days ago from sending the Boston drug dealer on to whatever fate awaited him in the next life when his cell phone rang early in the evening as he was sitting down to dinner. Only one person had the number to this particular phone, so there was only one person it could be.
He took a deep breath and answered the call.
***
To Jack’s way of thinking, Logan Airport in East Boston was the perfect location in which to hold a clandestine meeting. Although logic might suggest otherwise—airports, particularly in the post-9/11 world, were typically crawling with law enforcement, federal government types and metal detectors—Jack had found that the constant bustle of activity, the endless streams of travelers talking and shouting and moving about, made blending into the crowd a simple matter for someone who knew what he was doing.
Jack knew what he was doing, as did Mr. Stanton.
Today’s rendezvous was to take place at one of the many restaurants scattered throughout Logan’s terminal buildings. After careful consideration he had selected a local seafood joint gone national, known for their clam chowder. Jack loved chowder, and felt the drive into the city would be worthwhile whether he accepted today’s assignment or not if he could at least avail himself of a bowl.
He arrived a few minutes early. Took a seat and dug into his chowder, knowing Mr. Stanton would slip into the chair across the table from him at exactly ten a.m., their agreed-upon time. Not one minute before and certainly not one minute after.
He was right. The older man eased into his chair with the grace of an aging athlete and Jack glanced at his watch. “Thirty seconds late,” he said. “You’re slipping.”
“Maybe it’s time to have that watch cleaned, ” came the immediate reply. “It’s running a little slow.”
Jack smiled took another bite.
“Good job in Somerville,” Mr. Stanton said, taking a sip of a cup of coffee. He either didn’t enjoy seafood or wasn’t hungry, because he hadn’t bothered to order anything besides the drink.
“Thanks. That guy was a piece of work, even when compared to the subjects of most of your assignments. In fact, I’m forfeiting my fee on this one. Please make sure Mrs. Farnum gets it. I have a feeling she needs the money more than I do.”
Mr. Stanton gazed across the table, his eyes giving away nothing. “Of course,” he said after a short pause. Then he cleared his throat. “You know, sentimentality is your enemy in this line of work.”
Jack nodded. He had considered that very fact three nights ago, had lost sleep over it in fact, wondering what it said about him. Was he getting soft? Losing his edge?
He didn’t know, but what he did know was that it was an issue for another time. He had forged a bond with a woman he had never met, and was determined the suffering mother receive her money back.
“What do you have for me?” he asked, allowing Mr. Stanton’s comment to pass without acknowledgement.
His contact slid a packet across the table. Jack glanced at it briefly and then put it aside unopened. The packet would contain all the details on the proposed assignment, which of course meant that its examination required privacy. When he got home—assuming he accepted the assignment based on the preliminary information—Jack would be expected to remove all of the materials he would need, such as counterfeit licenses, credit cards, and other forms of identification, and then memorize everything else and destroy the documentation.
He tucked the packet next to his chowder and listened as Mr. Stanton gave a brief rundown of the details of the contract. Protocol dictated that Jack be permitted up to two days to decide whether to accept the contract or reject it, but as Stanton sketched out the job, he knew before his contact had even finished speaking that he would accept the assignment.
He listened quietly, sipping his own coffee. When Mr. Stanton indicated he was finished, Jack said, “Really? Blake Arthur Standiford III? That’s the guy’s name? What parents in their right mind would ever hang that on a kid? Is he a mobster or a college professor?”
Mr. Stanton rarely smiled. For a long time Jack had wondered if he even knew how. But now his thin lips twisted into the barest hint of one as he said, “I can’t answer your question about the name. But as far as his occupation is concerned, my information suggests he probably doesn’t even know what a college is, much less teach at one. But if he is a professor, he won’t be one for much longer now, will he?”
7
The frightened girl at the highway rest stop back in Ohio was just a fond memory as Joel Stark continued across the country in his rusting Pontiac Le Mans. The object of his desire, the reason for this trip, was a girl.
A different girl.
His girl.
Joel had been chasing after his girl for a long time. He’d caught up with her more than once, too. But thanks to his single-minded obsession with her, which led to over-aggressiveness and poor decision-making on his part—he wasn’t afraid of a little introspection; it was the key to self-improvement, after all—he had allowed her to slip through his fingers every time he came within striking distance.
His girl’s name was Victoria Welling, and whenever he thought about her—which amounted to probably three dozen times a day—Joel thanked his lucky stars for his father’s extensive network of contacts, which had enabled him to track her down again after she had gone scampering off like a terrified rabbit.
Joel’s father, John Stark, was a New York City police detective. And he wasn’t just any detective, either. “Stark the Narc” was legendary in lowlife circles for becoming extremely influential, not to mention moderately wealthy, through the selective abuse of his position on the NYPD.
John Stark’s job was to take down narcotics traffickers and thus rid the city of the scourge of illegal drugs and their associated criminal activity. And to a point, that was exactly what he did.
But he was nothing if not perceptive, and he’d seen the handwriting on the wall early in his career. He could remain a hardworking public servant, compensated poorly and treated with disdain by the public he was paid to serve, or he could leverage his unique position, using it to acquire wealth and influence of his own.
He chose the second option. Stark the Narc had begun shaking down the distributors in his area of jurisdiction, which included some of the meanest streets in Brooklyn.
He didn’t worry about the street dealers. To John Stark those guys were nothing more than low-level suckers, taking most of the risk of the unlawful drug trade while reaping few, if any, of the rewards.
Instead, Stark went for the middlemen, shaking down the dealers to gain access to the regional bosses. After that it was a simple matter to negotiate agreements, whereby Stark would ensure that he and his men were looking the other way during the delivery of certain high-priority shipments into the city.
In exchange for sufficient compensation, of course.
It was a win-win for everyone, with the possible exception of the law-abiding citizens of New York. The scam was by no means new, but the elder Stark discovered he was a natural at playing both sides against the middle, doing just enough legitimate work to keep his NYPD superiors happy—or at least satisfied, more or less—while at the same time raking in hundreds of thousands of dollars in illicit, untraceable cash over the course of his career.
Joel Stark, while appreciative of his father’s skills, didn’t give a damn about the money. It was okay, he supposed, but of far greater significance to him was that network of contacts his father had built, both legitimate and illegitimate. For the right price, Joel had discovered he was able t
o utilize those resources to track down the object of his obsession—eventually—no matter where she ran off to or how long she had been gone.
But Joel possessed none of the cunning or cleverness of his father. He was a sledgehammer, an object of brute force. He dropped out of high school after ninth grade, becoming involved in petty theft and the occasional small-time drug deal—an ironic outcome, he knew, given his father’s chosen occupation. Through sheer luck and John Stark’s behind-the-scenes influence, Joel had avoided any serious jail time.
Until the misadventure involving his favorite girl.
Joel cruised along the interstate at a safe, sedate speed—the last thing he wanted to do was draw the attention of the police now that he was so close to achieving his goal—and thought back to the first time he had set eyes on his princess. It had been the most fortunate of lucky breaks for him to have seen her shortly after her arrival in the city. It had been fate.
His much-too-short time with Victoria had spoiled him for any other girl, not that he hadn’t sampled plenty. Everything about her was perfect, from her luxurious ringlets of fiery red hair to her tight, slim body. Daydreaming about her never failed to arouse him.
Unfortunately for Joel, he had been apprehended less than a week after their magical night together, and he had cooled his heels in police custody through two trials—even Daddy’s influence hadn’t been sufficient to secure bail—before finally winning his freedom.
Since his release, he had split his time and energy evenly between two pursuits: searching for his elusive redheaded quarry, and obsessively “introducing” himself sexually to young women of similar build and hair color in a series of unsuccessful attempts to relive the thrill of his night with Victoria.
Every single one of the girls he so carefully selected had proven themselves unworthy, most so unworthy that he had been forced to kill them and dump their bodies. Each successive disappointment only served to fuel his desire for the real thing.
The Organization Page 4