Chapter 671

The Assassin

The assassin had reluctantly bid Antonia goodbye and made his way back to Colorado. Again, he took up residence in the rental house in Winter Park, then resumed his trips to eat either at Martha’s or the small restaurant in the town itself.

Never asking questions beyond, “How are you this morning?” or something similar, he continued his occasional observance of the Matthews’ Clan from a distance. If he happened to be at Martha’s when they came in, he would, of course, discreetly check out his target, but on those days, he would leave as soon as he ate his meal, never doing anything that would indicate that he was anything more than what he professed.

That one time when he just might have had a clear shot at his target for a couple of seconds was never repeated. She was small, and the women were always around her, probably inadvertently giving her cover. He dared not cast more than an occasional glance toward the group because Matthews’ eyes seemed to take in everything. Inadvertent or not, the family protected the target. With Matthews security, only a fool would have tried for the target. Whether through chance or design, his target was never open, even when the group was entering or leaving the restaurant.

He had considered a diversion, but he knew with certainty that it would not work. He knew professionals when he saw them. They would not be distracted from protecting the family. A distraction might, at best, interrupt their meal. There were four large vans, two in the parking lot and two on the road a hundred feet in either direction. He would bet they were loaded with backup teams carrying heavy weapons.

The old men mentioned something about a helicopter that couldn’t be seen, and one of them swore that he saw human tracks forming in the snow when there was no one near to make the tracks. He claimed that the tracks soon disappeared as well. Even the old men with him hooted at him about that, saying his eyesight was failing and he was getting too old, but he was adamant and obviously frustrated that his buddies would not believe him. “I am not senile,” he snarled. “I know what I saw with my own eyes. Fuck both of you,” he said as he threw down some money and stomped out the door of the small café.

Matthews and the man who bought his inventions were into advanced technology, according to the articles he had read. Was the old man having hallucinations, or did he actually see those disappearing footprints? Once, while walking out the door at Martha’s, the assassin had suddenly stepped to the left to avoid a child who ran by, only to feel minor contact with someone. He turned to apologize to whomever he had brushed against, but there was no one there. He’d thought little about it at the time, but now...

Word around the mercenary field was that taking a job that involved attacking Matthews was a great way to disappear — permanently. Shit, if I had known that Matthews was this involved and had the background on him that I do now, I would never have taken the hit. Suddenly, he realized. Tanaka knew. That bastard knew all the time. That little bastard set ... me ... up!

Discreetly, he had made himself a regular at Martha’s while living up to his story of being a minor author gathering background material for his next book. Someone had guessed who he was, but he had never claimed to be that person. He had continued to observe Matthews and his women when they had come into the restaurant but never sought them out or paid any more attention to them than anyone else did. That first time, when there might have been a slight chance of getting a shot off, never occurred again. Somehow, it seemed as if they expected to be attacked.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think that Matthews’ security would allow him to walk casually into the room where they ate. He had been in the business for years and recognized intelligence and professionalism when he encountered them. Matthews security was just that good.

With his “hearing aid,” he continued to gather rumor information about the attacks on this Matthews person as well as minutia about daily living in and around Winter Park. Everything he heard about Matthews and his home was discouraging. Even considering that the stories could be exaggerated tremendously, the fact remained that none of the attacks had accomplished anything useful for the attackers. As far as he could determine, every attack had resulted in the attacker’s permanent disappearance or death. What the attacks had done, in his opinion, was to make Matthews and his Security practically paranoid in their protection of the family. It seemed that no one had seen any of the Matthews go any farther from their home than Martha’s in almost a year. They no longer visited the shops in Winter Park as they had in the past, according to the old folks’ gossip.

Over the weeks, he had been to Martha’s numerous times, and the Matthews group had come in on several occasions. Today was no different as they came in with their security escorts and proceeded to the glass-enclosed room where they usually ate. From the thickness of the glass, he assumed it was bullet-resistant, so once again, they were seated in safety. He had barely glanced in the group’s direction to determine if his target was with them before returning his gaze to his food and notes. He ordered dessert as usual and took his time eating it before calling for his bill. After paying and leaving a proper tip plus a little more, he walked out while ensuring his eyes didn’t stray toward the Matthews’ group.

Because of the crowd, he had parked toward the back of the lot. As he neared his rental vehicle, there were suddenly two of Matthews’ uniformed security standing beside him. Despite his fake hearing aid and his excellent hearing, he had not heard their approach. It was as if they had been standing there waiting for him, but until that second, he had somehow not noticed them. One second there was no one there, and the next, they were within touching distance. One looked at something in his hand. “He isn’t armed,” he told his buddy.

“Who are you, and what the hell do you want?” he growled, playing the part, although he knew they were Matthews’ people.

“You know who we are, so let’s can the bullshit,” the taller one said.

“Where the hell did you come from?” he continued with his belligerent act. Deep down, he was very impressed. Few people could sneak up on him. None, he had always thought.

“You have a history of sorts, but it goes nowhere,” the second one said. “Why are you here?”

“That’s none of your business. You can’t start shoving people around just because you work for someone who is rich. I assume this Matthews guy that everybody is talking about is your boss.”

“We’ll ask the questions. If you don’t come up with a plausible reason for you to be spying on Colonel Matthews, we’re going to go for a little ride.”

He had, at first, thought they were just trying to scare him, but the “little ride” comment rang true. “Look, I’m a writer. I haven’t bothered anyone, let alone your boss. Sure, I’ve heard of him. He’s the main subject of the old folks’ gossip near where I live in Winter Park. Guys, I write detective novels about small-town detectives. I’ve sold a couple of — let’s face it — mediocre books. My editor says the dialogue between my characters could be better, so I’m trying to gather background information on how people normally act and converse in a casual setting. Hopefully, my dialogue will be better in my next book. I have written two books under a pseudonym,” and he gave them the name. “I don’t write about wealthy people, and I’m certainly not going to hassle your boss.”

They didn’t respond, so he had no idea whether they believed him or not. Actually, what he told them was true. He did write, but that had — so far — produced only a very meager income.

“Look,” he said, pretending to become angry, “I’ve minded my own business...”

And the lights went out.

An undetermined amount of time later, the assassin’s mind swam into consciousness. His mouth was dry, and his tongue didn’t seem capable of forming words, at least not just yet. He subtly tried to move. His mind gave his limbs the order, but they didn’t respond. Shit. I need to get some of whatever they’re using, he thought.

“He’s awake,” a feminine voice said.

One of the people who had stopped him by his car walked over. “Last chance to tell us what you’re up to.”

While he was trying to decide what to do, a female, dressed in the same type of uniform, came over with something in her hand as she casually said, “Tell us the truth, or we’ll use something on you that will make you tell on your own mother. Unfortunately, it leaves you with the granddaddy of all headaches.”

That must have been some kind of inside joke because everyone laughed.

“Dammit, just because you’re rich, you can’t do this,” he said, hoping Matthews was nearby. There is absolutely no way they can know anything about my hit — unless that fucking Tanaka has set me up.

He had spent a lot of money on learning how to resist torture and lie detection drugs. They will find that I don’t roll over so easily, he thought just as the beam touched his forehead. Within seconds, he was very willingly telling everything they asked in addition to volunteering even more. One interesting thing they learned was that he had decided to retire after this last hit, or more correctly, the hit that he was going to screw over Tanaka and change. Tanaka was, himself, going to replace the target. If there were anyone on Earth who deserved to be screwed over, it was Tanaka. He told them that he must have grown soft over the years, but he couldn’t see killing Tanaka’s wife just because he had the money to buy the hit. Especially after he had realized that Tanaka had lied practically every time he opened his mouth and was an evil little bastard who had been beating his wife for years. Tanaka was wasting the air someone else could breathe.

The voice spoke again. “Let him know — emphatically — that he is alive only because he has decided to change the hit. Impress his subconscious with a terror of ever trying to harm Aiko or any of us, for that matter. When you are positive that those commands can never be changed, put him back into his vehicle,” a voice ordered just before the world went entirely black again.

The assassin awakened the next morning with the sun shining in his eyes and with a blinding headache, seemingly having spent the night in his vehicle. What the hell? I never drink while I’m on a job, but now I wake up in my vehicle with my head splitting. What the fuck did I do last night?

There was a fuzzy memory of talking to two men while standing near his van, but he couldn’t even be certain of that.

After sitting for a while with the seat leaned back as far as it would go, he groggily sat up. Oh, well. I’ve gathered enough information to, hopefully, help with the believability of the dialogue between my characters. There’s just one more thing to do before I can return to Antonia.

Two days later, Tanaka, at home alone, had choked to death on his favorite noodle dish. Accidents happen, even to the most careful of us. When his will was read, Tanaka had never gotten around to changing it, or else the attorney had decided to screw Tanaka over and hadn’t taken his ex-wife out of the will. Not only was she awarded the majority of Tanaka’s money, but he had left his children a million dollars each. His lawyer had received a million dollars as well, in addition to his exorbitant fee. Tanaka’s wife wound up with a bundle from his “accidental” death, and double indemnity from the insurance company. It couldn’t happen to a “nicer” guy.

The assassin had learned to love Argentina and her quirks. He had more money than he would ever spend, and a beautiful, loving woman to help him spend it. Also, he had gotten an idea from the old folks at the restaurant that he thought would be the perfect hook for his detective to use in his next book.

The trip back to the U.S. was worth it, particularly after so easily finding Tanaka’s little book with the password for a sizeable account in Argentina, of all places. He tore that page out of the book but left the rest of the book of accounts and their passwords for his ex-wife to find. He had detested the asshole from the first time he saw him, and he had repeatedly told him not to lie to him. Well, his lying days were over now.