The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER TWENTY

Jeff Hardwick always killed with impunity because he could. Having been a member of the Pieces of Eight — a black-op unit from the Force Elite — a one-time government wetwork team, he and his brother had found life difficult. At first, when he was given his release for younger, more athletic super soldiers when age became a factor, he was sent off with a pension, an atta-boy pat on the back, and the following parting words: Oh, and by the way, if you disclose any information regarding the Pieces of Eight or the Force Elite, expect to be buried inside a pauper’s grave moments after the divulging words leave your lips.

Nice! Especially from a government you served well and without question.

Nevertheless, with his little government stipend which was pooled with his brother’s, they amassed enough to purchase an army/navy store in downtown Baltimore. At first they struggled by taking over a business that was floundering, trying to rebuild it from the ground up with potential connections in the military field, such as mercenaries in need of special hardware.

The first year was a struggle, most deals falling through until they were contacted by old teammates — Walker, Grenier and Arruti — who established their own militant organization for hire in third-world nations by governments with first-world money.

They had become their sole arms’ connection, profiting beyond imagination by supplying items such as claymores, sentry turrets or RPG’s — basically illegal wares of all types.

So within a year the store had become nothing less than a front for selling illegal arms.

And the Hardwick brothers flourished.

Now with padded bank accounts in the Caymans, and with vast sums across countries such as Belize, Brazil and Costa Rica, Jeff and Stanley Hardwick relished in the fact that there was a profitable market for just about everything.

And their market was destruction.

Walking beneath an overcast sky that was uniform gray, with his collar hiked up against a mild wind coming from the east, Jeff Hardwick walked as if he owned the sidewalk, the city, the world. With his lofty chin held high he moved with the authority of a man who believed that rules weren’t made for him, and everyone else should step aside as he passed them by. It was also this mindset of self-anointing shared by his brother, Stanley, who was eleven months older.

With a conservative haircut and regimental gym-build, the man looked years younger. He was lean with broad shoulders, thick thighs and massive biceps, much like his brother who was a physical facsimile. Neither brother was to be messed with on a one-on-one situation. To mess with one Hardwick brother was to mess with both. And it was this reputation throughout the streets of Baltimore that allowed them to bend the rules without impunity and rule by fear.

If organized crime had a title or name associated with it, it was ‘Hardwick.’

Walking east for a stretch before turning south, Jeff moved into an area hardly considered a decent neighborhood. There were aged store fronts with barred windows and cracked glass that were pieced together with strips of duct tape. Fruit vendors kept their produce beneath canopies that were torn at the edges and wagged with the course of a slight breeze. And drug-addled punks often hung out in the mouths of alleyways and street corners, sometimes congregating at the base of stone stairwells that led into apartments infested with vermin, rats and roaches. But whenever a Hardwick walked by chatter always ceased, as if in homage, until the man walked by.

Grabbing a key ring from his pocket, Jeff inserted a key into the lock and twisted, the bolt drawing back, and then he opened the door, entering.

The foyer immediately lit up from a light with a motion sensor, which revealed a second door that appeared stronger and firmer, that of cast iron. On the wall was a keypad. He quickly typed in a code — eight characters — and disabled the alarm. Once done he typed in a second set of codes, this time twelve characters, and the keypad mechanically pushed outward from the wall and tilted downward to reveal an optical scan. Placing his eyes against the lenses, the computer read the orb sequence calibrated to read the uniqueness of the Hardwick brothers roadmap of eyes, and confirmed his identity. No one else held the right to enter, especially when there was well over a million dollars of illegal arms stashed away in the lower vault.

After scanning his eyes, a massive bolt from the door automatically pulled back and the door swung open with mechanical slowness.

The store was dark, no windows, old uniforms and military helmets lined shelves that were heavy and laden with dust. Shadows remained unmoving with some shadows and shapes darker than others. And when he turned on the lights everything seemed bleak and gray and still, a coating of dust usurping everything.

After all, everything on this level was a prop and nothing ever moved. Everything of value was down below.

Tossing the keys on a glass countertop that was so dusty the items within the casing could hardly be discernable, Jeff Hardwick checked his answering machine by dialing in another code for retrieval.

Nothing.

Jeff, nor his brother Stan, had heard from Grenier or Arruti in over a week, which was cause for concern knowing they had something going on in the Philippines with a high-priority need for goods and wares.

Hanging up the phone that was specially built to encrypt all incoming calls and deflect all others not recognized by the computer, Jeff pulled out his cell phone and called his brother.

When Stan answered, he said one thing: “The vendor inquiring about the uniforms never called back.”

And it was cryptically understood: The firm of Grenier and Arruti, for whatever reason, had put current purchases on hold.

Something’s wasn’t right.

“I see,” he returned evenly. And without adding anything further, he hung up.