The Mercenary (19 page)

Figuring that the man would call his wife and take a shower, the Sandman waited forty-five minutes before moving. Shrugging into a cheap, BX-brand tan windbreaker, he put several objects in the pockets, tugged on a red baseball cap, and got out. Reaching over to the passenger side, the mercenary picked up the pizza he'd purchased earlier, then shut the door. Holding the box with one hand, he calmly walked up the sidewalk toward the BOQs, no different from the dozens of other pizza guys who'd visit the base that night.

Rather than take the center walkway under the lights, the Sandman approached from the side and stepped onto the verandah in the shadows. About halfway down, he suddenly heard laughing and three people came around the far corner. Two women in their early twenties were hanging on the arms of a man in a flight suit.

To do anything other than continue straight ahead would've looked suspicious, so the mercenary did just that. As the trio approached they saw him, and the girls, both wearing jeans and tight halter tops, giggled. With a quick, all-encompassing glance, the Sandman saw the officer was a captain wearing fighter-squadron patches. He had slightly glazed eyes and a pleased smirk on his face but seemed alert enough. The mercenary lowered his head and smiled shyly as they passed.

“Good evening, sir.”

The girls giggled again, and the pilot threw his head back and laughed. “It is now!” Then they were gone. It saved their lives.

Stopping to fiddle with the pizza box, the Sandman managed to watch them as they staggered down the verandah. They could've cared less—the pilot was definitely not from the Air Education and Training Command, which explained the interest from the girls, so he wasn't assigned here. In any event, he wouldn't remember any of this in the morning anyway.

Walking slowly and softly, the mercenary continued down the wide, dark porch and stopped at Fowler's door. A faint light shone under the drawn shades and he heard the muted sounds of a television. Listening a moment, he was satisfied that all was quiet, then shifted slightly to put the nearest outside light behind him.

Gently opening the screen door, the Sandman rapped three times, pulled his cap down over his face, and pretended to study the receipt stapled to the pizza box.

The door opened and Herbert Fowler stared calmly up at his guest.

“Yes?”

“Evenin' sir.” The mercenary thickened his accent and tapped the box. “Got yer pizza . . . large cheese with pepperoni.”

Fowler smiled indulgently. “Wrong room, son . . . I didn't order anything.” He was dressed in a pair of blue Air Force shorts, a silly Hawaiian shirt, and white socks. Typical.

Perplexed, the mercenary studied the receipt. “Suite One eighty-three . . . General Fowler. One large pizza.”

“That's me. But—”

“Wow,” the Sandman interrupted enthusiastically. “
General
. I never delivered to no general before!”

Fowler's smile broadened. The great man dispensing a favor on the riffraff. “Well, it's a living.”

Not for long. But the mercenary grinned, his head still slightly down and face obscured, then dropped the receipt. As Fowler stepped back and reached down for the paper, lights exploded behind his eyes as a knee hit his forehead and sent him toppling back into the room. Instantly stepping inside, the Sandman pulled the door shut, spun the security bolt and dropped the pizza box on an oversized green chair.

Fowler was out cold, spread-eagled on his back with his dirty white socks pointed at the door. The general's beach shirt was open, revealing the pudgy belly and undefined chest of a man who never visited the gym. A VIP room like this had two large sections: the sitting room portion they were in had a large couch, several chairs with a coffee table, and a desk. Switching off the desk lamp, the mercenary crossed into the bedroom, checked the blinds, and left the TV on.

Returning to the sitting room, he pulled a roll of duct tape from one windbreaker pocket and an eight-inch hunting knife from the other. Standing for a long moment, he looked down at S. Herbert Fowler and slowly smiled. The man's head moved to the side and he groaned.

Squatting down, the mercenary tore off several strips and taped Fowler's mouth shut, careful to leave his nose clear. He then ran the roll around the chubby ankles four times and cut the tape. Flipping him over, he taped the wrists together in a figure eight pattern that was impossible to break.

Fowler groaned again. Pulling the desk chair into the bedroom, the Sandman then lifted the general and sat him in it. Quickly running the tape around the man's chest and then his ankles, he finished by taping the chair securely to the bedpost so it wouldn't roll. Satisfied, he straightened up and slapped Fowler hard across the face.

As he revived somewhat, the general's eyes focused slowly on the figure leaning against the wall. Blinking rapidly, he tried to move his arms but couldn't. Straining against the duct tape, he whipped his head back and forth several times, then stopped, glaring angrily.

The Sandman merely watched, then removed the ball cap, raised his chin and stepped into the light. For a long moment the two men stared at each other. Fowler's eyes slowly widened, and the mercenary saw recognition spread across the other man's face.

“That's right . . . it's me.” He saw the astonishment in the man's eyes and the unspoken question. “Do you really have to wonder why? I know you thought, and certainly hoped, that I was dead, but even you must've had some doubts.”

The mercenary sat down in the other chair, facing the general, and stared into his face. “You're one of the most worthless individuals I ever met. A self-centered, self-righteous, narcissistic piece of shit. You meddled with my career and in my life—a career, by the way, that you never had the balls or hands to have. In fact, it was because of your interference that I ended up in a place I wouldn't have otherwise been.” His face hardened. “I lost a family that would be alive today if I'd been sent somewhere else.”

Fowler's angry little eyes had been red with rage but now showed a bit of alarm. The mercenary saw it and smiled. “You
should
be afraid. You're going to die tonight. In fact”—he stood up—“you're going to die right now.”

“MMPHHH!!!” Fowler thrashed back and forth and screamed against the tape across his mouth. “MMPHHH!!”

Lights burst again under his eyelids and his head felt thick and heavy; Fowler slumped forward, his jaw broken, and a smoky taste filled his mouth. Fingers seized his hair and yanked his face upright. As his vision cleared, Fowler stared into the expressionless gray eyes he remembered so well and hoped he'd never see again. Very deliberately, almost gently, the mercenary leaned the other man's head back against the chair.

Maybe he's done . . . maybe it was a bluff . . . maybe he just wanted to humiliate me . . .
Fowler's mind raced.
When I get free I'll have him hunted down. I'll. . .

He felt his shorts being torn away and snorted in alarm. The aching slap caught him by surprise and snapped his head sideways, and he faded into unconsciousness from the pain of his broken jaw.

It was nothing compared to what happened next.

Searing, burning fire shot up from his groin and Fowler's back arched, his eyes popping against the agony. Mucous streamed from his nose as he tried to scream and breathe at the same time. Involuntary tears streamed down his cheeks and he slumped forward again. Feeling the wetness, the general slowly raised his head and tried to focus on the shiny object moving slowly back and forth under his eyes.

Knife. It was a big hunting knife with a serrated back edge. It wasn't really shiny though, since it was covered with blood. Then he saw the other hand. It slowly opened and Fowler stared dumbly, trying to process the contents.

No . . .

NO!!

His shocked brain screamed but no sound came from his taped mouth and shattered jaws. Eyes bulging in horror, Fowler threw his head back and strained against the bonds holding him to the bed and chair. As a hand gripped him around the throat, the general tried to lean forward but felt his head forced even further back. He could do nothing but wriggle—the hand was horribly powerful and it was squeezing harder . . . and harder.

“After you're dead,” a calm voice whispered in his ear, “I'm going to kill your wife, too.”

With everything he had left, Fowler convulsed and tried to break the hold around his neck.

He couldn't do it. The other man was much too strong.

His view of the room began to fade. The edges grayed out and turned to black. Breathing stopped. He felt light-headed and strangely euphoric. In his narrowing tunnel of vision the other hand suddenly appeared. S. Herbert Fowler's euphoria vanished and the last emotion he had was the horror. The last sight he had was his severed penis and testicles swinging back and forth as his eyes glazed over and went opaque in death.

For a full five minutes the Sandman kept the same pressure around Fowler's neck. Finally, satisfied that the man was dead, he removed his hand and stared down at the mangled body. Removing the tape, he propped the general's head back so his lifeless eyes were focused on the ceiling. Shoving the bloody penis in Fowler's mouth, he dropped the testicles on the floor and stepped back.

One more set of sins paid for.

Satisfied, he flipped the big hunting knife into the floorboards, left the TV on and pulled the pocket doors leading into the bedroom shut. Standing at the entry door, he put his cap back on, pulled the curtain back an inch and listened. After a minute of perfect silence, he opened the door, locked it from the inside and slipped out into the shadows of the verandah.

Now for the others.

S
tumbling as she stepped out of the Officer's Club, Heidi Smith swore under her breath. Regaining her balance, she smoothed the tight skirt back down over her thighs, ruefully noting that her bulges had grown.

Inhaling the sultry Texas air, she sighed and remembered a time when it hadn't been like that. Twenty-five years ago, she wouldn't have had to wear skirts that stretched, nor have had to buy her own drinks. Most of all, she wouldn't have been walking out of here alone. Steadying herself against a pillar, she stared blearily across the parking lot and tried to focus on her car. It should've been easy to find—right there in all the other spaces that had the blue sign with a white eagle. When she'd married a young lieutenant who'd eventually become a colonel, Heidi thought she'd finally have the status and attention she so craved.

Well, that was certainly the miscalculation of my life
, she thought, hiccupping gently. He'd grown fatter with each passing year behind a desk, losing his hair and gaining glasses somewhere along the way. She could've dealt with that, and his backwater assignments. Her mistake had been in not marrying an officer who was already a pilot. Joseph Smith was on his way to becoming a pilot when they'd married, and he hadn't lasted through the basic T-37 phase of flight training.

Turned out, she'd picked a man who got airsick and was mortally afraid of flying. So instead of finding herself living around the world in exotic locations, proud of a man wearing pilot's wings, she found herself in Offutt, Nebraska; Tinker, Oklahoma; Minot, North Dakota, and a half dozen other garden spots. Joe Smith had become a support officer and slowly rose to command all of the paper clips, toilet paper, and telephone operators at any given base. She tried to bravely convince herself that whatever it was he did was just as important as the men who flew the jets.

But after four years of marriage she'd discovered that the men in flight suits at the O'Club didn't care what her husband did or even that she was married. She was young and skinny then and began to take advantage of her husband's frequent trips away. Over the years she'd had probably twenty affairs, some she could remember and some not. But it had gotten more difficult as she'd gotten older while Joe Smith slowly inched his way up the ladder. Now, as a full colonel's wife, she had to be much more careful. Still—she smiled a little—opportunities did come around. Though not tonight.

Managing to find the car, she carefully and slowly navigated Military Plaza circle around the Officer's Club and turned right on Park Road. A hundred yards farther, she turned right again on Inner Octagon and made another immediate right into the first tree-lined driveway. Bumping over the brick border lining the flower beds she lurched to a stop and stared at the house. It was larger than most, as befitted a colonel, but what she really wanted was one of the big general-officer homes along Military Plaza. Sighing again, she heaved herself out of the car and leaned against the hood, thinking about her story for the night. Not that Joe would believe her, but they'd both gotten used to going through the motions.

The front door was unlocked as always on a military base and she stepped in. Dropping her purse on console table, Heidi took a deep breath. “Joe! I'm back . . .” She managed to sound breezy and cheerful. Shrugging at the silence, she unsteadily made her way to the bar in the living room. Looking through the kitchen, she saw the top of his head silhouetted against the television's blue glow.

“Jo—
hic
. . . Joe . . . you wanna drink, babe?”

Nothing.

She shrugged again. Fuck 'im. Pouring a big triple shot of Wild Turkey, she skipped the water and took a big slug. If it was a fight he wanted, then he'd get it.

“C'mon—
hic
. . . C'mon Joe . . . nah like we ever drin' too much 'round here . . . huh?”

She walked slowly through the kitchen. “Whaddya got the drapes down for . . . itsa turrific-lookin' night . . . c'mon ouside wi' me.”

Maybe if she finished this drink she could forget how he looked. She could close her eyes and think of —

Something slid across her neck from the right side and jerked her backward. The glass crashed to the floor and Heidi's hands instinctively flew up to grab at it. As the scream was choked off in her windpipe, she pawed at the muscular forearm locked across her throat. Another arm appeared across her waist and she felt herself lifted up and pinned against a powerful male body.