Authors: Lance Horton
Maryland
At the corner of West Jefferson and 18th, in a quiet subdivision on the south side of Columbia, Maryland, a darkened moving truck sat next to the curb at the end of the block. In the converted cargo area sat Nathaniel Brockemeyer smacking on a mouthful of cinnamon-flavored gum. As a child, he wouldn’t have dared to smack his gum for fear of a beating. But his father wasn’t around anymore, so he was free to enjoy the gum as he pleased.
He wore all black, including the baseball cap turned around backward on his head. Over the top of the cap, he wore a pair of expensive Bose headphones that were typically only used in music-industry recording studios or by the most demanding—and wealthy—audiophiles. But he wasn’t listening to music or even the mindless chatter of conservative talk radio. Instead, he was listening to the sounds picked up by a dozen electronic bugs that had been installed in a house halfway down the street.
The only light came from a bank of flat-screen monitors mounted along one wall. One monitor displayed the view on all four sides of the van, while another displayed the dark backyard of the house down the block. Chuckling to himself, Nathan turned a knob on the console in front of him and adjusted the gain on one of the little microphones until he could hear Letterman’s monologue better.
Just as Letterman was about to deliver the punch line to a joke, there was a short
pop
, and the house fell silent. Someone had turned off the TV.
Damn it.
He slapped his hand against the console. He hated it when they did that.
There was a groan of leather as someone got up out of the La-Z-Boy (or off the couch), followed by shuffling footsteps and the creaking of the stairs as the occupant made their way upstairs. Nathan pushed a small button on the console, switching the feed to the microphones on the second floor. A door squeaked open; a light switch was flipped. There was an odd clattering, followed by the sound of someone brushing their teeth. After spitting and rinsing, there was more clattering.
Nathan had done this enough that he had become good at figuring out what people were doing. As he listened to the tiny
clink,
he could picture the person dropping the toothbrush back into the ceramic holder. There was more clattering and the sound of a plastic lid being unscrewed. Inside the truck, Nathan mimicked the person, holding an imaginary bottle of mouthwash and pouring it into an imaginary glass. He leaned his head back in anticipation and laughed when he heard the person beginning to gargle. “Damn, I’m good,” he said, amused by his own cleverness.
Looking at one of the monitors, Nathan waited until the light in the upstairs bedroom went out. He made a note of the time on his watch, and then leaned back in his chair to wait.
An hour later, he unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and stuffed it into his mouth. Standing, he buckled a leather tool belt—loaded with the special devices of his trade—on over his tight-fitting black fatigues. He took off the baseball cap, rubbed his hand across his stubbly red hair, and inserted a radio receiver into his left ear. He then pulled on a pair of black latex gloves and a black ski mask. He unfastened a pair of night-vision goggles from his belt and pulled them on, leaving the oculars flipped up on top of his forehead. He clapped his hands together and pumped his legs up and down as he ran in place like a sprinter preparing for a race. He took several deep breaths, mentally preparing himself for the task at hand.
Game time
.
He slipped from the back of the truck and scanned the block to make sure he wasn’t being observed. Overhead, the moon was blotted out behind a bank of thick clouds. The night was inky black. The only lights in the area were those still on in a few of the houses and the circular glow of the sodium-vapor streetlamp on the opposite corner. He had broken out the one nearest the truck. From behind the mask, his icy blue eyes glimmered like quicksilver.
He slipped down the alley. Years of advanced training had taught him how to be stealthy in urban environments. It had saved his life during the war with Iraq.
When he reached the back fence of the house, he hefted himself up and over. He landed in a crouch, grimacing at the momentary burst of pain in his right knee. It was an old injury that still bothered him, especially in the cold. It was a constant reminder of what he had been before.
Nathan crept across the backyard onto the patio and removed one of the tools from his belt. It bristled with a handful of thin, wire blades and metal picks. He pressed the device against the back door’s keyhole and inserted several of the thin, metal wires, working and twisting until there was a satisfying
click
. He replaced the tool and carefully opened the door, making sure it didn’t creak, and then slipped inside.
He flipped down the night-vision goggles. The house sprang to life in an eerie blaze of luminous green light.
He was in the living room. To his left were the breakfast nook and the kitchen. He made his way to the right, around the sofa and the La-Z-Boy recliner. He tiptoed up the stairs, stepping on the outer edges of each step in order to remain silent.
At the top of the stairs, he paused and pressed his left hand against his ear. In the truck, he had set the transmitter to broadcast the audio from the bug in the bedroom to the receiver in his ear, which he now listened to. The room remained silent.
He slipped down the hall and peered into the first doorway. A night-light next to the bed provided enough illumination for him to see without the goggles, which he flipped up. A small form lay curled up in bed—a boy, he surmised from the racing-car bedspread and the posters of sports figures and rock stars hanging on all the walls. One of them in particular caught Nathaniel’s attention, which caused him to pause. It was a large photograph of Carlos Aurilio, the National’s shortstop, in the process of ducking a tag as he slid into home. Dirt was flying up around him, and the umpire’s arms were spread wide. The caption across the top read: “The Washington Nationals—Staying Safe at Home.”
Seeing the poster caused Nathan to hesitate. He looked down at the small boy. He remembered when he had been young, the joy and admiration he had felt watching Cal Ripken Jr., play, and he felt an immediate kinship with the boy. He wished there was another way, but there wasn’t. He was the one truly keeping the nation safe.
He pulled a small silver canister from a pouch on his belt. He held it near the boy’s face and depressed the nozzle, dispelling a fine mist. He then turned to step from the boy’s room, but paused when he saw a baseball glove lying on the dresser by the door. He picked up the glove and slipped it beneath the boy’s arm before he moved down the hall.
In the master bedroom, Nathan crept to the side of the bed, his anger growing as he looked down at Jacobson. How could the bastard have been so thoughtless? Because of this man’s stupidity, his entire family had been condemned. Nathan’s fists clenched as he struggled to contain his rage. He wanted to pummel the traitorous bastard, to beat him to death with his bare hands. But it would raise suspicion, and that would not be tolerated.
He lifted the canister and sprayed the mist again, causing the man’s nose to twitch momentarily as he inhaled the vapor. He snorted once, and then settled back down.
Nathan moved around the bed. He paused as he looked down at the woman. She was beautiful, her lustrous blonde hair aglow in the moonlight that spilled in through the blinds. Her skin was soft and smooth, her lips full. Leaning over, he breathed in the heady scent of her. He started to reach out and touch her but caught himself. Instead, he quickly sprayed two shots of the mist beneath her nose. He wasn’t sure exactly what the vapor consisted of, or how it worked, but he knew it was a complex chemical agent because he had received an inoculation prior to the mission. What he did know was that within minutes all three would be dead from suffocation. The autopsies, which were certain to be performed, would reveal that they had all died from carbon monoxide poisoning. On his way out, he would simply rig the pilot light on the gas range to cover his tracks.
He waited until he was sure she would not wake, then pulled off the glove on his right hand and placed it against her cheek. He burned for her, but it was forbidden. There could be no evidence of his visit. He was already taking a big chance by just touching her.
He felt a faint exhalation leave her body—then no more. He closed his eyes, absorbing the warmth of her flesh until it began to fade.
Finally, when she had grown cold, he removed his hand, pulled the glove back on, and strolled from the room.
Nathan drove the moving van south on Highway 29 headed toward Washington, DC. About five miles outside of Columbia, he exited the highway and turned right onto one of the rural county roads. He followed the road for two miles before he turned off onto a private drive. Fifty yards down the drive, he came to a guard station nestled among the trees. Hidden from the state road, the concrete and steel building looked more like a military bunker than a security checkpoint. A large steel gate extended across the drive, presenting an impassable barrier to virtually any vehicle other than a tank. A twelve-foot-tall, electrified, chain-link fence lined with razor wire extended into the woods on each side. Red and white signs stating “
Danger
—
High Voltage
” and “
Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted
”
were spaced at fifty-foot intervals along its expanse.
He pulled up beside a black stanchion and stopped. He rolled down the window so that the camera could get an unobstructed view in order to run its facial-geometry and thermal-sensing scans. In years past, the gate security system had consisted of palm print and retinal scanners, but even those had been somewhat vulnerable to subterfuge, whereas the new system, based on the recognition of the thermal heat pattern of a person’s face, was virtually impossible to circumvent. Additional cameras on the passenger side and thermal scanners embedded in the asphalt beneath the vehicles assured that no other occupants or stowaways were entering without being cleared first.
There was a soft
beep
, and a pleasant female voice said, “Welcome, Mr. Brockemeyer. You are authorized to proceed.”
The steel gate rolled back. He drove down the asphalt roadway that wound through the trees for a half mile before it opened onto a wide, grassy plain of gently rolling hills. A stark, silver-mirrored building that was four stories tall and almost a quarter-mile long stretched across the clearing, its exterior bathed by a multitude of floodlights ringing the perimeter.
He passed the turnoff to the large circular drive in front and followed the road around back, where a second, identical building, offset by some thirty yards, paralleled the first. Driving alongside the second building, he turned down the ramp into the parking garage. At the bottom, he repeated the security check and then waited for the gate to rise.
He drove across the empty parking garage to a concrete wall at the end. Looking toward the roof of the van, he waited while the thermal scanners verified his signature. A deep
boom
echoed within the garage as the steel bolts retracted. A section of the wall slowly rolled aside, revealing a hidden bay of the garage. There were two moving vans similar to the one Nathan was driving and a red Corvette parked inside. He parked the van, leaving the tool belt draped across the chair in the back, the keys in the ignition. He walked to a panel in the concrete wall before him. After he opened the panel, he removed a foam-filled canister from its cradle and inserted the silver vial. He replaced the canister and pressed a small red button. There was a whistling, humming sound, and the canister vanished as it was sucked into the vacuum-tube system. After he closed the door on the canister panel, he turned and got in the Corvette.
With a squeal of rubber, he raced from the garage.
Nathan took Highway 29 south toward Washington. The growl of the engine and the tires humming across the pavement provided a hypnotic effect, threatening to lead his mind down roads best left untraveled. Struggling against the memories that tugged at his mind, he rolled down the window and sucked in great gulps of the cold night air as beads of perspiration trickled down the back of his neck. He changed the radio station, turning up the volume until his ears rang, but the image of the boy continued to haunt him.
A lone vehicle approached on the opposite side of the highway, its headlights momentarily blinding him like the burst of a camera flash.
He is eight years old. He huddles in the corner of his closet on a hot summer night, clutching a half-sized, autographed baseball bat and rocking back and forth as the voice of the Oriole’s play-by-play announcer echoes within the darkness. The volume is turned all the way up in an effort to drown out the shouting and screaming emanating from the living room.
He imagines stepping up to home plate, a sea of fans wildly cheering him. The green grass of the outfield is bathed in the glow of the silver-haloed floodlights. There’s the smell of pine tar and chalk as he scoops up a handful of dirt from the batter’s box. He rubs his gloves together as he stares down the pitcher. He is not afraid. He is in control. He’ll show them who is boss. And they will scream in adoration as he rounds the bases.
A razor’s edge of light springs to life beneath the bottom of the door. There is a bellowing roar like the grunt of a charging bull. The door bursts open. The nauseating stink of cigarette smoke, sweat, and whisky fill the tiny space. Nathan cowers in the corner, wishing he could disappear, wishing he was somewhere else, anywhere else.
“Turn that goddamned thing off!” screams his father as he grabs him by the ankle and drags him from the closet. “I’ll show you what that fucking bat is good for!” he roars as he jerks it from Nathan’s grasp—
Nathan’s hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His jaw muscles stood out like steel cables beneath his skin. If not for the wad of gum in his mouth, he might have cracked a tooth. The car was flying, the white lines blurring as the Corvette shot past. He was making his way around a curve, the front end of the car dipping to the inside, the tires squealing as they began to lose purchase, the rear end slipping nearer to the concrete divider. He was on the verge of losing control. He lifted his foot off the accelerator and glanced at the speedometer. He was doing over a hundred.
Perhaps it was best that the boy and his mother had been put out of their misery
, he thought as he feathered the brakes to bring the car back under control.
He needed to blow off a little steam. His pent-up anger had him so wired that he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He would just toss and turn and stare at the ceiling, waging war with his inner demons until dawn came creeping through the blinds. Instead, he decided to head for Suzie Cue’s. It had been almost a year now. It was doubtful anyone would remember him.
As its name suggested, Suzie’s was a pool hall. But unlike the stereotypical version full of bikers and roughnecks, Suzie’s was a modern, hip version with a full menu and hundreds of brands of beer, both domestic and imported on tap. The decor consisted of stainless steel and brick, with lots of bright neon. On Tuesday through Sunday, live bands played on a small stage in the corner. The clientele consisted primarily of young kids attending the nearby junior college, but there were always a few older barflies watching the rowdy kids and reminiscing about their lost youth.
It was a little after one o’clock when he pulled into the parking lot. He got out and made his way to the door, pausing to spit his gum into a small planter as he passed. Dressed in a tight black shirt and cargo pants, wearing combat boots and his Orioles cap backward on his head, Nathan looked enough like the other college kids that he didn’t attract any undue attention as he walked in. As he passed by the hostess station, he grabbed a couple of cinnamon-flavored toothpicks from the dispenser and began chewing on one as he made his way to the bar. He sat on the stool at the end, back in the corner next to the TV. ESPN was showing highlights of the evening’s NBA games. Four long-haired kids who looked like they should still be in high school were on stage, playing a poor rendition of Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” A chubby young girl with long black hair and glasses was working the bar. He ordered a Budweiser, which she poured from the tap and placed on a cardboard coaster in front of him.
He slammed down half the beer in one gulp and ordered another. In an attempt to be friendly, the girl made a comment about him being really thirsty, but Nathan wasn’t listening to her. His mind was elsewhere.
He spun about on his stool and began watching the crowd, his blue eyes narrowing as his tongue flicked the toothpick back and forth between his teeth.
He slammed down three more beers—a small fire break against the inferno raging within—while he watched for the right opportunity to present itself.
It happened just before closing time. During his surveillance, Nathan had spotted two couples playing pool at a nearby table. Obviously college kids, they drank pitcher after pitcher of beer and became louder and more annoying with each round. The boys were both dark-haired and handsome, one of average height and well-built, the other tall and thin. Typical frat boys, they both wore Polo rugby shirts and Rolexes and had an air of spoiled sophistication about them. No doubt their parents were well-to-do DC socialites who had sent their sons to a small college in the suburbs in order to avoid the social decay of the inner-city. Nathan disliked them instantly.
The two girls with them fit the sorority-bitch mold equally well. They both had big, blonde hair—probably bleached—and wore slutty, low-cut blouses to show off their surgically enhanced tits.
As Nathan watched, one of the blondes stepped up to the pool table for her turn. Nearly missing the cue ball completely, she broke into a hysterical fit of snorting laughter before she staggered back to her stool. Head drooping, she sat down, but because she had misjudged her actual location, she slipped off the edge of the stool and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Her friends howled and pointed, stumbling about and slapping each other on the back, as if it were the funniest thing they had ever seen. The girl who had fallen, however, didn’t share in their amusement. When her date grabbed her by the arm to help pull her up, she jerked away and snapped, “Don’t touch me!”
Nathan seized the moment. Standing, he strode over to the table. The boy was still trying to help the girl up while she huddled on the floor, pouting and slapping at him.
“Hey, pal, leave the girl alone,” Nathan said, his arms folded across his chest.
The boy spun around, the shit-eating grin slipping from his face as he looked up at Nathan.
“You work here or something?” the boy slurred.
“No, I just heard the girl tell you to leave her alone.”
“She’s my fucking girlfriend, jerk-off.”
Nathan grinned. “Fucking girlfriend, huh? You mind if I fuck the little whore?”
“What’s your fucking problem?” the boy glared at Nathan.
“You,” Nathan snapped. He jammed the boy in the chest with both hands and knocked him back several feet.
Nathan crouched as the boy charged him, swinging wildly. With a quick, fluid motion, Nathan swept his left arm up, blocking the punch. He stepped forward and punched the boy square in the mouth, splitting his gums and knocking out teeth.
As the boy collapsed, Nathan whirled to face the attack he knew would come from behind. The tall, thin boy was already in motion, swinging the fat end of a cue stick at his head. Nathan ducked, and the stick whistled past, just grazing the top of his head. As he pivoted on his left foot, Nathan kicked out with his right, catching the boy square in the stomach. The boy crumpled to his knees, gasping for breath.
The gathering crowd parted. A muscle-bound bouncer came thundering across the room like a charging bull.
Nathan grinned and stepped into the attack, the roar of the crowd ringing in his ears.
As the bouncer bore down on him, Nathan grabbed him by the arm and, turning, flipped him. The beer-emblazoned pool table light shattered as the bouncer’s feet crashed into it. Shards of glass and plastic rained down upon him as he landed in the middle of the pool table. Before the bouncer could rise, Nathan was over him, hammering him with a barrage of blows to his face and midsection.
“Fuck you, you worthless son of a bitch!” Nathan howled as the punches rained down.
When the fire had finally burned itself out, Nathan stopped. Without another word, he turned and made his way to the door. The crowd parted before him.
Stepping into the cool embrace of the night, he knew that he would sleep like a baby tonight.