The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Kimball and Jeff Hardwick were in the sub-basement inside the Vault, the room well lit, the walls were pristine white and lined with rows of all kinds of weaponry. On the table in the room’s center was an olive-green duffel bag. Jeff was stuffing items inside, gearing himself for an immediate evacuation. He had packed minimal clothing items, toiletries, but his main goods were the weapons he had in storage. In the bag he placed a Desert Eagle, suppressors, plenty of ammunition, combat knives, throwing stars, and two other handguns, a Glock and a Smith and Wesson. Most importantly, he tossed in about a half dozen fake passports.

Against the far wall was a safe that was not concealed. After playing with the dial and opening the door, Jeff pulled six bundles of cash that Kimball assumed to be $10,000 packs, for a total of $60,000.

“What about all this?” Kimball said, waving his hand in indication of the multitude of weapons adorning the walls. “Are you just gonna leave them here?”

Jeff didn’t answer him, at least not right away. The man stopped packing and stood idle, his face growing incredibly long over the past few hours. With mechanical slowness he leaned over the table and placed his knuckles on the top for support. His eyes were staring at nothing in particular. But Kimball could tell that his mind was active.

“Stan wasn’t too bright,” Jeff began. “Instead, he was all guts and glory, always willing to take that first step when no one else was willing to do so, including myself.” His face began to crack, a slight quiver of the chin. “When we were kids in school there was this kid who was huge for his age. I mean really big, you know.” His voice began to crack. “And one day he tried to hit me up for money. When I was reaching into my pocket for change Stan would have none of it. I mean, here was my brother, a guy much smaller than me, and he took this kid on. Well, Stan ended up getting smashed down to paste, and the kid ended up with my money anyway. But I never saw my brother the same way again — at least not as my little brother.” He turned to Kimball, his eyes glassy with the sting of tears. “Day after day this kid came after me for money, and day after day Stan stood up for me and took the beatings instead. So here we were, me and my little brother, who was much smaller than me, showing off guts I wished I had.”

Jeff drew away from the table and began to pace the room in a grid. “Then one day,” he went on, “my little brother took me to this tiny hole-in-the-wall shop. But what he took me to was much more than that. It was a martial arts studio. But it was the beginning of us as brothers working as a team not to be fooled with. So we grew together, became inseparable. Then one day when this kid came at me for my money, I knew I was ready and stood my ground with my brother at my side, all guts and glory Stan was. Needless to say my brother and I beat this kid so bloody because we wanted to make a statement. And a statement we made. Nobody ever messed with us again. And you know what? We loved that feeling of toughness, that feeling of invincibility. So we became the very thing that we abhorred most. We became bullies who were no different from the kid we destroyed that day on the playground. And because of him we became something else. And then one day, when we were ready, we went back to destroy our creator.”

Kimball stepped forward. “I’m sorry for your loss, Jeff. I am.”

Jeff’s face suddenly became hardened, the muscles in his jaw working. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me, you son of a bitch. Don’t… you… dare.” Jeff galvanized himself into action and placed more essentials in the duffel bag.

And then, at the top of his lungs and driven by rage, “DON’T YOU DARE!” And then he broke, sobbing like that bullied little boy he once was on that playground.