The Iscariot Agenda

CHAPTER NINE

The Vatican secured an immediate flight on Alitalia Airlines from Rome to Las Vegas, Nevada, with a stop in Boston for refueling. On his journey Kimball carried clothing and, in a secured panel of his luggage, dual KA-BAR commando knives. On his person he carried a false passport, which was provided to him by Vatican officials in order to protect his identity in the States, since he was an absconder presumed dead by the United States government. If it should be discovered that he was still alive and holding secrets regarding the reprehensible dealings of past presidential administrations — the murders, the in-house assassinations, the monolithic political cover-ups — Kimball would most likely end up at the wrong end of a Company man’s Glock and disappear forever.

Sitting alone in one of the two seats in the first-class row, Kimball sat in the aisle seat. An open manila envelope lay beside him in the other. In his hands were the dossiers of the surviving members of his old team. And Kimball had to wonder how detailed information was gathered so quickly by the SIV.

And then he looked up, his eyes starting with enlightenment: They have a file on me, he realized. All this information was already in my file.

Giving a sidelong glance for a cursory view outside the window, Kimball saw the choppy waves of the Atlantic below, the frothing mounds churning up specks of white against a plain of ocean blue, as the jumbo jet made its westbound trajectory to the United States at a clip of five hundred sixty miles per hour.

He checked his watch: another four hours to go before landing in Boston, then another six to Las Vegas; more than enough time to glean information from the book-thick dossiers.

Turning back to the folder in hand, he took note of the before-and-after photos of the next target, and then closed his eyes, biting softly on his lower lip.

What Ian McMullen had become from what he was could not be considered anything less than a fall from grace. In a photo taken within the last two years, according to its time stamp, the former commando appeared to be thirty pounds less with an aged and crestfallen face that looked thirty years older than what he really was. Obviously he had given himself totally to drink and had become a man who no longer possessed a soul, ambition or hope.

For years he’d been living from shelter to shelter in the hot, sweltering Las Vegas streets. The climate sapping his body dry the same way his past had sucked his will to press on.

Kimball opened his eyes and saw the earlier photo of a man with a strong jaw line, thick neck, and the red handlebar mustache bracketing Irish lips. What he saw was a man whose face had slimmed to hatchet thinness, now dirty and soiled, with unkempt hair mostly matted, and eyes that had gone from the color of bottle green to drab olive.

What Kimball was looking at was the photo of a vagrant who had no hope of returning to his former self as a top-of-the-line soldier, no matter how hard he fought. The man was too far gone in a battle he could not fight or win. And just like that, Kimball’s team had dwindled from four to three.

Placing the photo aside, Kimball picked up the presumed target after McMullen, a man by the name of Victor Hawk, a Native American Indian of the Mescalero Apache Nation in New Mexico. Apparently he returned to his people after his service to the American government, collecting a retired federal stipend and using his time to raise horses on a ranch just outside the reservation.

As a soldier the man was brutal, specializing in stealth kills by combining the immaculate expertise of his people and training of a soldier, then plying them as part of his skill set as an unseen assassin. With his unit branding him ‘The Ghost,’ it was said in larger-than-life form that Hawk’s target would see nothing but jungle, then a flicker, and then the target would be dead as the Apache drove a knife across his throat or a garrote around his neck.

Now having aged with his face growing heavier and jowls beginning to form, with raven hair beginning to show streaks of silver and a belly beginning to show a paunch, Kimball could only wonder if anybody in his team remained in fighting condition.

Placing the photos aside he picked up the dossiers of last two members with a little more hope and optimism. Jeff and Stanley Hardwick, both crazy in a reckless sort of way because of their never wavering lust for danger and their constant need for an adrenaline rush, looked well-muscled and cut today, as they did years ago.

Known as the Brothers Grimm, one being a world-class sniper and the other a demolitions expert, they both exceeded in other areas of expertise including martial arts and double-edged weapons play. But they also had a proclivity for being insubordinate, the brothers often teaming up against other members due to their My-Way-Or-The-Highway mentality.

Currently the brothers ran an Army and Navy surplus store in Baltimore, and possessed a lengthy record of misdemeanor convictions for Drunk and Disorderly, Disorderly Conduct, and Obstruction of a Public Officer.

Kimball nodded. Some things never change.

Placing the materials aside, and then rubbing the fatigue from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, Kimball attempted to formulate a plan. But how do you do that with a vagrant, an aging Indian, and two out-of-control maniacs who never really grew up?

More so, how do find someone who doesn’t have a face or name?

That’s easy: You let them find you.

After taking in a deep breath and then letting it out with an equally long sigh, Kimball picked up the photo of McMullen and considered this: When this assassin comes looking for you, I’ll be there.

The plane continued on its westward flight.