The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There was something about the passenger of the four-seated Cessna the pilot did not like. Whenever he asked a question, the man usually spoke in monosyllable answers of ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ And when negotiating a set price from Albuquerque to Maryland, the man always spoke in a clipped manner, his answers always brief and to the point with no interest in small or gregarious talk beyond the settled cost.

The man always held his head low, the brim of his boonie cap covering most of his face with the exception of his jaw line. Beneath his clothes the pilot could see that the man was well honed, his body kept in shape by regimental exercise. On the ground next to him was a drab, olive green duffel bag, the type used by the military.

Without a doubt the man was evasive. And with the economy the way it was, the pilot was not about to let a willing customer go. So they settled upon $1,200/hour flight time with a guaranteed minimum of $6,000.

When agreed upon the man paid willingly, in cash, the $6,000 paid up front.

Once the Cessna was loaded with the man taking the rear seat behind the pilot, the pilot called the tower for departure rights and taxied the plane onto the runway. During this time the customer remained silent and always kept his head low, the brim of his hat concealing a major portion of his face, as he periodically gave sidelong glances out the window.

The pilot, in his forties, and with grizzled features of gray-brown hair and premature wrinkles, cocked his head and spoke. “It’s going to be a long flight — say, six hours. Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.” Again — a monosyllable answer.

The pilot snapped on a few switches on his console. “Whatever.”

Within moments they were flying at an altitude of 20,000 feet.

The assassin knew he was being evasive. He also knew that such actions prompted suspicion from most people. But he also sensed desperation in this man who would sell his principles if the price was right.

The price was fixed at $6,000 in cash; all up front and paid immediately with no further questions and with the clear understanding that the pilot was to fly him to Maryland.

After loading the duffel bag into one of the rear seats, he took the seat behind the pilot, the act in itself telling the pilot that he wasn’t interested in camaraderie, talk, or any type of amity.

With his head hung low he often took sidelong glances out the window, the landscape in the distance a primitive horizon of mesas and peaks in blends of reds and oranges, the strata lines running across them marking the ages.

From the front the pilot spoke. “It’s going to be a long flight — say, six hours. Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes.”

The pilot then hit the switches on the console in what the assassin took to be an action of someone in a huff.

Then: “Whatever.”

Once the Cessna leveled off at 20,000 feet, the assassin ran the palm of his hand against the duffel bag next to him. And by feel he found what he was looking for. Beneath the fabric he located the outline of the CheyTac M200’s stock, the weapon broken down and neatly packed.

It was something he obviously could not get aboard a commercial flight; therefore, the private route.

After he had taken the life of the Native American, he saw the CheyTac as an asset and took it not as a trophy, but as a necessity since he was about to go up against the Hardwick brothers.

So keeping his head held low, the assassin remained silent throughout the flight as he kept his palm against the bag as a constant reminder that the weapon would always be within reach.

Kimball Hayden was on a flight path of his own under the false credentials afforded him by the Vatican’s SIV Unit. He sat in the economy class, the breadth of his shoulders an inconvenience to the two women sitting on each side of him, their space minimized by his size. But neither said a word once they spotted his collar. They only nodded and feigned smiles, a show of politeness to the priest who was not a priest.

After he spoke with Cardinal Vessucci from Hawk’s ranch, the SIV immediately set up the next available flight to Annapolis in Maryland. Once there he would head west toward Baltimore, home of the Hardwick brothers, two of the most hedonistic people who were insubordinate, stubborn and roguish beyond principle, but excellent soldiers, nonetheless.

On the foldout table before him he had the photos sitting in a neat pile. In his hand was the glossy of his old unit. Everyone who had been terminated had the spelled marking of the letter in the name of ‘Iscariot’ beside their name with the exception of Victor Hawk. Using a marker, Kimball simply wrote the letter ‘R’ over Hawk’s image, then sighed.

For a long moment he stared at the images, at the young faces, and then he remembered the camaraderie they shared together as an elite force, and their shared arrogance that they were too good to take down because they were unstoppable.

Now the arrogance had come back to bite them, and ironically.

There was somebody out there that was better, stronger, faster, and far more deadly. And he was taking his team down with seemingly little effort.

For a lengthy moment Kimball stared at the photo, the team who posed in front of a camera so many years ago. A photo that now had three surviving members. With his marker he circled the face of the soldier next to Hawk, the person next in line and most likely within the assassin’s sights. Jeff Hardwick.

After laying the glossy down, Kimball glanced at his watch. It would be another two hours before he would touchdown in Annapolis. And perhaps another thirty minutes to Baltimore, once he rented a vehicle.

And then he wondered one thing: Was the assassin one step behind or one step ahead?

Either way, he was about to find out.