Callsign: King - Blackout

12

King straightened his fingers so that his hand was completely flat, a necessary precaution to avoid accidentally injecting himself with the poison.

For a fleeting second, he saw success sitting squarely in his crosshairs. Brown took a phone call on his headset, raising an index finger to say he’d just be a minute. With the call completed, he turned back to King, his lips turning up ever so slightly in a smile. King thought he saw the man’s shoulders shift…was he about to extend his hand, accept the handshake? A moment later, he understood the reason for the smile. Then he felt powerful hands close around his biceps and forearms. King instinctively struggled against the grip, but now saw a pair of Alpha Dog guards on each side of him.

Brown’s smile transformed into something hard and grim. “Don’t make a scene, Sigler. I spent a lot of good money on this little soiree, and I’d hate for you to ruin it.”

King’s heart started pounding in his chest. This wasn’t merely a minor reversal; his mission had just gone from textbook to FUBAR. Somehow, Brown had discovered him.

They must have found the real Downey, he thought. But no, even if that were the case, he’d left no clues pointing back to his real identity. How then?

Brown leaned close to one of the hirelings and whispered: “Take him below and put a bullet in his head. Nothing clever, just kill him. We can dispose of the body later.”

Before King could even think about offering further resistance, the mercenaries lifted him a few inches off the ground and began walking him off the stage.

In desperation, King shouted: “You’re forgetting something, Brainstorm.”

His captors’ stride remained unfaltering as they stepped down from the dais and angled toward a door at the rear of the saloon.

“You should hear what I’ve got to say,” he shouted over his shoulder, but Brown was already turning away. “You think we don’t know what you’re really up to? My team is standing by, ready to shut you down.”

If Brown heard him there was no reaction.

He chose his next words very carefully, shouting them even as he was hustled through the door. “What’s the probability that I’m bluffing?”

His words seemed to echo in the now awkwardly quiet room, but then the door closed behind him and there was no one to hear his protests except for the four dour guards. He considered trying to reason with them, but one look told him that would be fruitless. He knew their ilk well: former military, probably separated under dubious circumstances. In love with guns and killing, but not so good at discipline or observing rules of engagement. Shaved heads, muscle-bound and faces a little puffy from steroid use. He wondered if they would draw straws for the privilege of administering the killing shot.

As soon as the door closed, they set him down, but before he could even think about trying to twist out of their collecting grasp-a plan unlikely to succeed, but better to go down fighting-something hard crashed into the back of his skull. His last thoughts were of Sara and Fiona-sadness over never seeing them again, and relief that they were safe at home-then darkness claimed his mind.