The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The assassin had followed Kimball and the Hardwick brothers from Baltimore. He had placed a simple GPS device to the bottom of their truck, the system sending an image of the pickup to the screen of his monitor, which was secured to the dash of his rented vehicle. From a distance of three miles he could safely follow without being seen. And when the vehicle finally came to a stop close to Senator Shore’s residence, he couldn’t have been more elated.

The Iscariot Agenda was going well.

Parking the vehicle approximately a block away from where the Hardwick brothers parked their beefy pickup, the assassin found a vantage point on the slightly canted rooftop of a 24-karat home that had been foreclosed apparently for some time, at least by the appearance of the dead lawn and unkempt shrubbery. From his position he had a perfect view of the pickup. And through the scope of the CheyTac M200 he appropriated from Hawk, the vehicle seemed within a stone’s throw away.

With precise handling he removed the additional pieces of the rifle from his backpack and began to assemble them, carefully snapping the sections together. Once completed, the assassin mounted the scope and checked the landscape through the lens, the world becoming a phosphorous green with objects becoming very clear and very detailed.

After securing a suppressor to the rifle’s barrel, the assassin found the wide trunk of an oak tree and sighted the weapon to its center. Maintaining a shallow and steady breath, drawing the crosshairs of the scope to the center of the tree’s trunk, the assassin pulled the trigger, the gun barely sounding off.

When splinters of wood exploded to the left of his intended target he recalibrated the scope and tried again, this time hitting his target dead on.

Closing his eyes, the assassin took a deep breath and released it with a long sigh. Once he felt a meditating calm sweep over him, he removed a photo from the side pocket of his backpack and examined it. It was a Photostat copy of the Pieces of Eight, the photo marked with circles surrounding the faces of those now dead.

Looking at the pickup truck, then back at the photo, and with Kimball and the Hardwick brothers currently engaged with the senator, the assassin knew he had more than enough time to set the stage for the next scene.

“No!”

There was no doubt in the minds of the two Capitol police officers that they heard the same thing. The cry was loud and crisp and clear.

From the first level they quickly galvanized into action and grabbed their MP5’s, the officers racking their weapons and heading for the semi-spiral staircase with the points of their weapons directed to kill.

Jeff, Stanley and Kimball heard the footfalls of the officers climbing the stairway. Having no choice, Kimball removed his firearm and racked the weapon, chambering a bullet. Jeff and Stanley moved quickly to the hallway, the stairway to their left — the officers getting closer. To the left of the stairwell was a recess whose inner wall bore the artwork of something avant-garde.

“I got this,” Stan whispered.

Stan went to the recess and hid behind the wall at the top of the stairwell. The Glock was in his right hand.

When the forward officer crested the top step Stanley surprised him by darting out from the recess and came across with his left hand in a sweeping arc, the blow from the blade of his hand catching the officer in the throat, the clothesline strike causing the officer’s feet to go out from under him as the force sent the man hard to the floor.

In fluid motion his gun hand came up and centered on the second officer, the man’s eyes going wide with the quick realization that his life was about to end as Stanley fired off three shots in quick succession, the bullets impacting the center of body mass with the striking force driving the man down the stairway, the body rolling to a stop at the bottom step, the man’s face contorted, his body a broken ruin.

In a sweeping motion Stan came around with the weapon and centered it on the man lying on the floor, gagging, his lungs fighting for breath as his hands clutched his throat where he was struck with a chopping blow. Without hesitation Stanley fired off two additional rounds, the bullets striking the officer in the forehead, two hard punches, his blood fanning out beneath him like a halo.

And just like that it was over.

Both men had been killed within a period of three seconds.

“Now that was a work of art,” commented Jeff.

“We’re not done yet,” he said. “Don’t forget the guy with the MP5 outside.”

Jeff held up his weapon, waved it and smiled. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Stan reciprocated with a smile of his own. “Then let’s go get him.”

Kimball was beside himself. The Hardwicks were caught up in their own blood lust. The killing was as much as an addictive drug with the brothers finding their fix with the pull of a trigger. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down, he thought. In and out with no one killed — the mission simply to determine who the assassin was behind the killings of the Pieces of Eight.

In Kimball’s estimate, the senator had nothing to do with commissioning their demise. He was sure of it.

The Hardwicks, however, concluded something differently.

“Let’s just walk away from this,” he told them. “There’s no need to take out the guard.”

Jeff faced him with a disconcerting look. “What the hell happened to you?” he asked him. “That white collar you normally wear choking off the blood to your brain or something? You’re turning into a pussy, Kimball. Keep with protocol and erase all elements of opposition.”

“The guard won’t even know until we’re gone.”

“If he sees the bodies, then he’ll call in reinforcements. We need time to draw distance between us and them.”

Kimball knew he was right. That had always been the rule of thumb: Engage, destroy, and retreat. There was no platform he could truly debate from to quash the situation. Killing had always been their forte.

Conceding to the will of the brothers, Kimball had no choice but to follow, his position as team leader having been usurped by the Hardwicks.

The killing would go on.

The remaining officer who covered the grounds received a command through his earpiece. It was a call for backup, the voice frantic. When he responded through his lip mike he did not receive a reply in return, the frequency going silent.

The officer held his MP5 high, the weapon an extension of himself as he moved his head in a swivel, his world seen through the lens of the assault weapon.

From behind came a noise; barely perceptible, but still there.

He pivoted.

Through the lens he saw nothing but the Italian cypresses swaying gracefully with the course of a light wind.

Then more noise, this time from the right, no doubt the snap of a twig.

Something was moving within the shadows.

The officer pivoted, then with slow efficiency made his way toward the source of the sound.

There it was, in the shadows, the silhouette of a man standing as still as a mannequin, waiting silently within a copse of trees.

“You! Move forward with your hands on your head! Now!”

The shape did not move.

“I said now!”

From behind, whispered words were spoken mere inches from the officer’s ears. “Maybe he doesn’t want to,” the voice said.

The officer never heard the assassin sneak up on him. The man’s focus squarely of what was in front of him rather than keeping a peripheral awareness.

The officer quickly pivoted, the point of the gun swinging around.

Too late.

His opponent quickly knocked the MP5 out of his hands and came across with the blade of a KA-BAR combat knife, cutting through the man’s neck with all the ease of slicing through a hot cake of butter.

The man’s eyes widened, his neck becoming a second horrible mouth as he quickly bled out. Falling to his knees with his mortality slipping away, his head, although far from being severed, fell back like the cap of a Pez dispenser, the wide gash showing the plumbing of internal gore before falling back dead.

Jeff sheathed the knife and beckoned his brother from the shadows. “Nice job, man.”

Stanley smiled as he made his way forward. “I never had a doubt.”

“What are you talking about? You were nervous he was gonna pull the trigger, weren’t you?”

“Like I said, I never had a doubt. You were moving up on this guy like a cat.”

After the brothers’ fist bumped each other they turned to the body, the wound glistening in the darkness like black tar.

“Kinda like old times, isn’t it?” asked Stan.

“Certainly gets the blood going. I almost forgot what it was like.”

Kimball came forward. He purposely remained far from the scene but kept a keen eye to see how it would play out. “I hope you two animals are happy with yourselves.”

Jeff turned to him. “You know what I like about you, Hayden?”

“No. What?”

“Absolutely nothing.” He squared off with Kimball, the six-inch height difference between them evident. “Your holier-than-thou attitude is getting on my nerves.” Then: “You’re not the same man, Kimball. One time you would have been bathing in this guy’s blood after you gutted him… What happened to you?”

Kimball remained silent. But his mind answered for him. It’s all about salvation.

After a short lapse of time Stan stepped forward, grabbed his brother’s arm, and began to usher him away. “We gotta get out of here,” he said.

Jeff allowed himself to be led and Kimball followed, the men picking their pace up into a jog, then to a sprint, and made their way back to the truck leaving five people dead in their wake.