The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER SIX

Arruti was feeling every bit of his forty-five years of age, the run back to the safe-house a harsh one given the humidity of the Philippines. Regardless of the fact that he was still in excellent shape, he realistically knew he could not fight the clock forever.

With his soaked shirt clinging to his skin, Arruti leaned against the wall of his one-bedroom apartment and waited for calm. As his chest heaved and pitched in controlled breathing to slow the pace of his rapid heartbeat, he also bore the heavy burden of the loss of a close friend.

After pulling his gun from his waistband and placing it on the counter, he then went to the window and slightly parted the drapes.

Nothing below, nothing above — the streets were often empty in this part of Cotabato.

After letting the curtains fall back into place he went to the ice box and pulled out a soda, yanking the tab clean. However, when he closed the door he saw the photos attached to the door. The initial shock caused him to drop the can, the soda spilling everywhere on the yellowed and cracked tile.

The added photos were centered among three of his personalized photos. One of him and Grenier smiling as they held their weapons high in a display of macho attitude, and two with him and Grenier standing alongside a smiling and legless Walker, who sat in his wheelchair. It was a small collage of a Band of Brothers.

The three additional photos were somewhat vulgar in display. One was of Walker lying on a table, tethered, his life having already bled out with the letter ‘I’ carved into his back. The other was of Grenier, a stilled photo capturing the bolt of the ‘S’ that was sliced into his flesh. The last photo was an old black-and-white glossy of his old unit, the Pieces of Eight. Walker and Grenier had been circled in red marker, the letter ‘I’ within Walker’s circle, the letter ‘S’ in Grenier’s. His face was also circled, but no letter filled its emptiness.

Yet.

Arruti quickly pivoted on the balls of his feet and reached for his weapon on the counter. But the weapon had been broken down. The magazine had been ejected from the weapon and lay on the countertop, the ammo lined up in a perfect roll. The barrel’s slide had been separated from its grip and lay on the counter as well, side by side, the weapon now independent pieces rendered inoperable. Oddly enough, the disassembly work was accomplished within a few feet away from him in absolute silence, and all within moments.

How is that even possible?

Behind the counter stood the assassin, watching, his face betraying zero emotion, the face of a killer.

“How did you get in here?”

“Does it matter, Mr. Arruti?”

“No, I guess not.”

In a sudden burst of speed that caught the assassin off guard, Arruti circled the counter and extended his leg in a kick that caught the assassin’s chest, sending the man in flight until he came crashing down onto a coffee table, smashing it, papers and magazines flying everywhere as the assassin rolled onto his hands and knees in an effort to quickly gain his feet.

“You think you can just walk into my home and take me out?”

When Arruti charged the assassin was ready.

This time, when Arruti threw a sidekick to catch the killer in the temple, the assassin trapped his leg, held it, then threw a quick knuckle jab to Arruti’s groin, sending Arruti to a bended knee.

The assassin then committed to an aeronautical assault. From his stance he took to the air in a gymnast’s somersault, his body spinning in a clockwise motion in midair with his leg cutting downward like a guillotine and catching Arruti on the shoulder, snapping the collar bone and rendering the man’s arm useless. In a follow-up motion, the assassin came up and over with his opposite leg and connected with the other shoulder, the bone snapping with an audible crack.

As white-hot pain coursed through Arruti, he clenched his teeth and fell to both knees, his shoulders hanging in awkward angles, both arms totally useless. “You son of a bitch!”

The assassin calmly took to the couch, rubbing his chest. “There comes a time, Mr. Arruti, when a man’s life must come to an end. I will give you a moment to reflect upon yours before it’s taken away.”

“Who are you?”

“Who I am is of no importance.”

Arruti appeared spent. “Then tell me why.”

“All I’ll say, Mr. Arruti, is that you have exactly one minute to make peace with your god for all the transgressions you committed in the your life.”

“What are you talking about?”

The assassin leaned forward. “I’m talking about your roll in the Pieces of Eight.”

“Ah, an assassin coming to kill an assassin. Seems a little hypocritical with what you’re about to do, don’t you think?”

The assassin reached into the cargo pocket of his pants and pulled out a silver cylinder. Depressing the button, a pick shot outward and upward. “You have forty-five seconds, Mr. Arruti. If you believe in God, then you may want to start asking Him for forgiveness.”

“What I want to ask is this: On whose behalf are you doing this for? A senator? A past president, maybe?”

“Thirty seconds, Mr. Arruti.”

“You’re good. I’ll give you that.”

“You’re wasting time.”

“It’s my time to waste.”

“Twenty seconds.”

Arruti swallowed, his eyes beginning to dart from side to side searching for an avenue of escape as self-preservation began to kick in.

“Pray, Mr. Arruti, it’ll give you comfort in your final moments. You now have fifteen seconds.”

“Look. I have money. I’ll just go away. Whoever you work for will never have to know, right?”

“Wrong. Ten seconds.”

Arruti sighed in resignation. “No god will forgive me for the things I’ve done.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that twenty-three years ago.”

At the last second of the countdown the pick found its mark, killing Arruti instantly.

The assassin was true to his word.

Raising the tail of the dead man’s shirt and exposing the back, the assassin then sliced a crude C into the man’s flesh.

His work in the Philippines was complete.