The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The assassin had no idea that Kimball Hayden had just driven within fifty feet of his location as he holed himself up inside a cheap franchise motel along Tropicana. Behind the drawn drapes the assassin sat on the edge of the bed going over aged dossiers of the Pieces of Eight. The dossiers of Walker, Arruti and Grenier were closed out, the files bound by an elastic band and sitting on the nightstand between twin beds. The five remaining dossiers sat on his lap. The profile of McMullen was open, the aged photos yellowing at the edges, the detailed information regarding the one-time government assassin spelled out in seventeen pages.

Taking the photo of the Pieces of Eight in pose, the assassin traced a finger over the face of McMullen where the letter ‘A’ was scribed within his circled head.

I-S-C-A, the top row was now complete.

And there was no doubt that those on the bottom row would soon coalesce into a fighting force and strike up a plan for self-preservation, with Kimball as their lead.

But they would be fighting blindly, he considered, the core members not knowing who they were up against — how many or how little — with every sound or moving shadow a possible threat.

The assassin then closed the folder and slipped it beneath the band with the other closed files, then placed the active files on the bed beside him.

The first to fall would be the Indian from New Mexico, he mulled, the one they called The Ghost. And then the brothers who were by nature passionately reckless, with Kimball to be the last to feel the bite of his pick.

The man got to his feet, went to the window, and parted the drapes. The lights of the Las Vegas Strip were truly magnificent; the city the bedrock of dreams of becoming wealthy beyond imagination usually going unfulfilled. It was a place created on romantic illusions of penthouse living, caviar snacks and champagne brunches, only for the city to spit you out in the end once it bled you dry.

It was a cruel place that took McMullen by the inches. He just finalized the inevitable.

Returning to the bed, the assassin picked up the final folder and peeled back the cover. Inside was an old photo of Kimball Hayden, very young, a stoic pose, the man without remorse or contrition. It was the photo of a killer.

The assassin traced a finger over the picture. “After I take those around you and there is no one left, I will take your life before your soul has a chance to find the salvation it so badly seeks

… I will send you to Hell where you belong.”

Closing his eyes, his breathing finding the even rhythm of meditation, the assassin shut the file and found himself at peace.

Kimball Hayden had flown into Albuquerque and rented a car. His eyes were weighted, his entire body fatigued with more than thirty hours of going without sleep. But he pressed on towards the Mescalero Apache Nation.

Around him the land was made up of multiple color blends in shades of reds and pinks and mauve. The buttes, the rocky rises, all lined with the strata lines formed millennia ago, lent somewhat of a primal, prehistoric look to the terrain. Sage and desert flora dotted the landscape. And the sand was the color of Mississippi mud, red with alluvia lines formed by the push of hot winds rather than the force of running water.

The flight to New Mexico was minimal in time expense. The drive, however, was time consuming.

By mid afternoon he had found the cut off leading to the reservation. But according to the dossier, Victor Hawk’s ranch was on the border between his people and the people he lived with, the White man.

Taking the dirt road, his vehicle kicking up rooster-tail plumes of red earth in its wake, Kimball could see a ranch-style house in the distance and a barn that was surrounded by posts that corralled horses.

Leaning against the corral posting stood a large man. But Kimball was too far to see if it was Hawk.

What he could tell, however, was that the large man was looking right at him.

The Native American leaned his elbow against the corral posting and stood there in leisure, eyeing the vehicle that was making its way down the dirt road to his ranch. Next to him was a German shepherd. A growl rumbled in the back of its throat.

“Dog,” said the Indian, “hush.” But the shepherd continued his growling.

As the car neared the Indian stepped away from the posts and closer to the road’s end. He was tall and broad with the beginnings of a paunch. And beneath the ten-gallon hat he wore his raven hair was fashioned into a thick braid that went down to the small of his back. His eyes were dark, the edges surrounding them were deeply lined with crow’s feet from spending too much time beneath a sun that had ripened his skin to the color of tanned leather.

The shepherd matched him step by step, its growl hardly abating.

“Dog, I said hush.”

When the car drove up it was coated with dust. The windshield, however, was marginally clear after a mopping of the wipers. When the driver exited the vehicle he stood before Hawk with a briefcase in his hand. The first thing the Indian set his eyes on was the Roman Catholic collar, and then the cleric’s shirt, and military-styled pants and boot wear.

“Something I can help you with?”

The driver took a step closer. “It’s been a while, Hawk. You still go by Ghost?”

The Indian cocked his head, his mind working with recall. And then his jaw dropped as his eyes flared with incredulous disbelief. “Kimball?”

He smiled sheepishly. “How’s it going, big man?”

“You’re supposed to be dead. Died before the first war with Iraq.”

“Apparently I didn’t”

The dog began to growl.

“Is the dog friendly?”

“When he’s not hungry.”

The Indian walked closer, appraising Kimball, his eyes staring in wonder.

And then: “What happened?”

“Truthfully, Hawk, I just walked.”

The Indian tilted his head. “You absconded?”

Kimball nodded. “I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t continue to do all the horrible things we did. Not anymore.”

Hawk stood within a foot of Kimball. And after what seemed to be an awkward moment embraced him. “It’s good to see you again, my friend. On the word of your passing I prayed to the spirits for many nights on your behalf. And here you are many years later.” He pushed away and pointed to Kimball’s white collar. “And what is this? Are you a priest of your people now?”

“Hardly.”

“Then, why the collar?”

“It’s a long story, Hawk.”

“All I have is time. All I do is stand here all day and watch my Appaloosas roam the land.”

“They are beautiful,” he commented.

In the pen behind Hawk were six horses, all mottled with different patterns in different shades and sizes.

“But enough about my horses,” he said. “Why are you here?”