 
Manic Monday

## Jake Monday Chronicles 1

### Robert Michael

### © 2012 Robert Michael

### SMASHWORDS EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

### INFINITE WORD PRESS

### Broken Arrow, Oklahoma

### Printed in the United States of America
Chapter 1

## Royale with Cheese

Jake enjoyed feeling the cold Italian marble against the small of his back almost as much as he did the view before him. The mansion was located on a pristine, lonely stretch of beach along the coast. The California sun reflected off of the gently tossing waves. The only mar upon the whole scene was the blood from two bodies slumped against the patio door.

Jake's phone vibrated against the marble, startling him. He thought he had more time. The bodies were still warm. The "cleaner" was not due for another hour.

"Monday."

"Do we have a clear conscience?" The voice on the other line was thick with a Russian accent, the "r's" clipped and the vowels full and round.

"The deed is done. Housekeeping is on its way."

"You are cleared for recovery, then?"

"I strongly recommend that I remain until the housekeeper leaves."

A pause from the other line. Someone covering the speaker with their hand.

"When they leave, you must be prepared."

"I understand. " Jake hated talking in code. It was trite and paranoid. But, perhaps, knowing what he did, it was wise.

"Five-one-five, dash, two-one-three."

"Three base Monday out and clear. Five-one-five, dash, two-one-three."

He shut his phone and got moving. He wiped the marble down with a cloth, extracted a hand-held vacuum and cleaned along the door and under the mat. Jake pulled out the stiletto he used to assassinate the two guards, removed the detachable wood handle and replaced it carefully with another. The replacement was a plant. He carefully peeled back the plastic covering the prints and deposited it in his jacket pocket with the original handle.

Jake checked his watch and admired the sun as it continued to travel towards the horizon. The doorbell rang. Jake walked briskly back through the house, its vaulted ceilings, expensive furnishings, and modern art welcoming and cold. He could see the cleaners through the window in the front. Suddenly, he was reminded of _Pulp Fiction_. The older man, Charles, Jake had met about a month ago. He looked remarkably like Harvey Keitel. Jake did not know the tall, lean fellow with him. He opened the door and fought the urge to look back over their shoulders down the drive.

Instead, he found himself staring at the gargantuan nose of Charles' partner. His nose was bulbous, red, and out of place on the man's face. His cheekbones stood out prominently, his unshaven chin jutted forward, and his ears seemed barely attached to his skull. He looked like he had skipped a whole week of nutrition and got a busted nose as a reward.

Thankfully, they pushed on past him without noticing. They were on a schedule. It was crucial not to deviate from it by standing gawking at each other or making small talk. Besides, he knew Charles was all business. They made their way back toward the bedroom, the young guy craning his considerably long neck to take in the gaudiness and lavish home of Eilif Nicolaisen, real estate mogul, trafficker of drugs and slaves.

"Through here?" Charles motioned towards the hall.

"Yes. On the left."

They entered into the bedroom and put down their equipment: two briefcases and a bucket.

"Nice house." Big-Nose said. He looked around at the paintings, the furnishings, his eyes roaming, full of grift and barely concealed excitement.

Charles shook his head as he unpacked. He glanced up at Jake and smiled. Charles inserted the knife with surgical precision. Big-Nose fell forward onto the bed face first. The only sign of his passing was a small red dot of blood on the back of his neck below his skull. Jake shrugged. Sometimes Charles took matters into his own hands. He usually had his reasons.

"So, how's your wife, Charles?" Jake asked.

Charles rolled Big-Nose over onto the floor, cradling his head with a plastic cloth to catch the blood.

"She is obstinate as ever. I tell her of you and she say you are her hero." He wrinkled his nose in distaste. "The woman is a tramp, I am saying."

"I say she has good taste." He put his hands in his pockets with a wry smile upon his lips.

"I found him on the road, needles lying around him. Last night at the park. He not ask much questions, but offered to have sex with me. Disgusting." He wiped his hands on his slacks. "America is full of perverts and deviants, I am saying."

"He finds you more attractive than your wife does, Charles."

Charles chuckled a little. He was a hard man to make laugh, but Monday had developed a rapport with him over last few weeks.

"Not surprising. She likes young men. Always has. I was young once, too. Now, she has her way with all the young men. Me? I don't care." He shrugged. "Let her have her fun." He pointed to Big-Nose as he adjusted the body into position. "He fit the bill for goat?"

"Yes. He will do fine. He is tall enough to fit my strike angle. Thank you for sending his prints ahead. The timeline will be more accurate that way. You do good work."

"I am told I am the best." He said, pointing to his chest. He held out his other hand for the stiletto. "I do not know. Maybe, I see doctor soon. Pains in my chest, aches in my joints. I retire before one of these bait kill me first." Jake handed him the stiletto wrapped in a heavy cloth.

"Everyone expendable, everyone valuable."

"That is what they teach you? So cold and precise. So good I suppose. Easier to let go when you know where you stand in the first place."

With the planted stiletto in place, it was easy to piece out the scene. Two guards killed by Big-Nose with a twelve-inch stiletto knife. On his way out, Charles would arrange the house to seem that a robbery was in action when the thief was caught trying to hide in the bedroom. The two guards, amorous chaps that they were, caught the thief on their way to consummate their fondness for each other and were murdered.

No need to be extreme in the staging. The authorities would be encouraged to wrap up the embarrassing affair quickly. Money can make many things possible.

Still, it was tidy. Eilif would not suspect that he was being set up. Sometimes assassinations were more complicated than merely extermination. Sometimes it is necessary to assassinate someone's character as well as their person.
Chapter 2

## A Few Dollars More

Eilif wiped his face with shaking hands. His Hublot Black Caviar Bang watch caught on his long dark hair. Anguish etched his features.

He did not give much thought to the guards, Hanz and Beckett. If Clarence had not told him their names over the phone over an hour ago, he would not have known them from the maid. He had no care about their preference for each other. These things did not matter. What mattered was the man lying on the floor in his foyer. What mattered were the police, the FBI, the unidentified authorities traipsing through his house.

He felt violated, exposed, and for the first time since Finland, he felt vulnerable. He looked down in horror at the splatter of blood on his ostrich Ferragamo blüchers. He hoped, wildly, that no one noticed. He fought the urge to wipe it off. He held his neckerchief in his sweating palms, kneading the cloth. He watched, fascinated and utterly decimated as men and women crossed in front of him, oblivious to his presence. Clarence was answering all the questions.

_This is what I pay him for_ , he thought.

Part media expert, part security advisor, and mostly a hard-nosed manager in a soft-seeming British exterior, Clarence was his most trusted employee. Invaluable. Calculating.

A small but valid concern that nagged Eilif was the possibility that Clarence would someday realize his value and use it as leverage. It was fine to surround oneself with qualified and capable people. It was also wise to be as paranoid as possible about those people and arrange plans of succession in the case that they must be removed. Despite his trustworthiness, Eilif wondered if perhaps it would be best to offer the man more compensation as sort of a delaying action for what Eilif considered the inevitable. He put it at the back of his mind.

He had more pressing concerns at the moment.

He had never seen the man before in his life. His wounds did not make Eilif flinch. But, his nose was atrocious. He had to look away. It made him a little ill at his stomach. Eilif had that problem with everyone he found to be distastefully ugly.

Eilif was positive that he would be rid of these people in a short while. He was convinced that Clarence could handle the situation. He really just wanted to go upstairs to his secondary suite to change into a robe and some warm slippers, have some brandy and read the briefs his team had prepared for him on the shipment coming next week from South Africa.

He resented standing there in his formal living room watching total strangers mangle his carpet.

That was when she walked in. He could tell immediately that she was trouble.

Detective Charlotte Bellevue was all professional. From her sensible blazer to the thin line of her mouth turned into a frown of distaste and judgment, Eilif could tell that things had just gotten worse.

"Mr. Nicolaisen, I am Detective Bellevue of the Violent Crimes Unit here in Ventura." Her blonde hair was cut just below the nape of her neck. She looked fit, intelligent, and mad.

"How can I help you, Sergeant?"

"Detective is fine, sir." No nonsense. No small talk.

_Does she not truly know who I AM_ , he wondered, appalled at the disdain with which she spoke to him.

"Sorry." He was totally flabbergasted. He was also offended slightly that the department would not send their brass in a situation like this.

"Mr. Nicolaisen, I will need you to join us down at the VPD to answer some questions."

Eilif's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"I was not aware that I was a suspect," he said as coolly as he could manage. He could sense things spiraling out of control and he could not imagine why.

"The investigation is just underway. Nothing has been determined as to the suspect. However, some facts have arisen that we need to corroborate." She seemed impassive, distant. Her eyes lied about the smile on her lips.

"Facts." He meant it as a question.

"Yes. Facts concerning your involvement with the Vasquez Cartel in Mexico. This man," she indicated the man with a sweep of a hand, "was connected to the cartel."

"I see." But, he did not. He was confused. "Will I need a lawyer, Miss...I am sorry, I forgot your name."

"Detective Bellevue. And, yes, a lawyer will be appropriate."

He looked down at his designer boots. His despair was deep. Not because he knew exactly why he felt a level of doom he had never experienced before, but precisely because he had no earthly idea what the future was going to hold. He suddenly felt that some cosmic rug had been pulled out from under the soles of his boots.

He could not help himself. The detective seemed supremely helpful, but a little voice in his head told him not to trust her. Not for one minute.

"Am I in trouble, officer?"

She lifted an eyebrow and shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"I suppose you might be, Mr. Nicholaisen. And I am a detective, not an officer."

Eilif wanted Clarence to show up and get him out of this situation.

"What are my options?"

She actually smirked.

"You can come willingly or I can come back with a warrant and we can do it the messy way. It is up to you, Mr. Nicholaisen. The difference is that if you go with me now, the trucks out there will only be able to assume you are coming with me to answer questions concerning the crime that took place in your residence here. If I get a warrant, the reason for your visit to the department will be a little more public. You understand the difference, don't you, Mr. Nicholaisen?"

Eilif had noted the network trucks with their bristling antennae, ugly satellite dishes and loud generators. They were an eyesore, and the reporters annoying. He had been instructed by Clarence to say "no comment" to everything and let him handle it. That was where Clarence was now.

"I will need to gather some things first," he said. He had to stall.

"I appreciate that, but you will only need your identification, your passport, and your lawyer. That will suffice. After all, Mr. Nicholaisen, this only questioning. We are not pressing charges at this time."

"Well, that is a relief. I am innocent."

"Alright. Now, if you will come with me, please. I have a car parked out the side door to minimize your exposure."

"That was thoughtful. Thank you." He knew she was placating him. He hoped to win her over by being grateful and compliant. Clarence would surely recommend those strategies if he were here.

Eilif followed the detective out into the bright California sunshine.

It was the last time he would see the daylight for almost a week. After that, the only times he would glimpse the sun was between ducking into his car behind his lawyer, surrounded by police escort, reporters shouting questions, and the flashing of bulbs.
Chapter 3

## California Dreaming

Jake picked at the corner of the chair arm. He found these meetings supremely boring. They could be summed up in a dozen sentences. Inevitably, they would go on for over four hours. They would beat the proverbial horse until it was paste.

Lars was the biggest culprit. He was tenacious about details. He wanted more information about the information. One answer would lead to four more connected questions. He would fold his fingers together, lean his head forward looking at the mountain of paperwork, glancing at one of his three computer screens, tap his keyboard, and quietly ask another question.

Lars would then stare at the one answering the follow up question, his bifocals perched perilously on the end of his nose. His graying hair made him look distinguished. His Russian accent was, strangely enough, a reminder that he was in charge.

What made Jake the most ill was that his team mates would go along with the charade. Gary, Sammy, and Violet were pleased to be called on to provide more information, to answer more detailed questions. Often, the reply would be: it is in the report.

It never mattered. Lars wanted it vocalized.

Mission debriefings were meant to be cathartic. They were meant to bring closure to the process of ruining other people's lives. These briefings were one reason why Monday was ready to just go home and lie in bed.

He felt nothing when he killed people. Nothing at all. That, in and of itself, did not bother him. But, paired with the boredom he felt at these meetings and the dread he felt at mission assignments, he could plainly see that his days as a high-priced assassin were almost over.

It would be ironic, he thought, if he was decommissioned out of boredom. He felt deeply that his discomfort with his chosen profession was much more complicated than simply the lack of excitement. Such an idea was laughable.

"What I can understand, then, is that our friends at the VPD CSI have found all the clues we have planted?" Lars was looking at Gary. It was Violet who answered. She was always eager to stand out.

"Yes, Director. No suspicions of the plants. And the charges have also included the murder of our 'goat,' Niles Sampson."

_His name was Niles? A nose like that and name to match. Maybe killing him was a favor,_ Jake thought.

"Good." He nodded and pushed the glasses up on his nose.

Jake was distracted by a bird outside the window. New York seemed so sterile and concrete after his visit to the other coast. He missed the way the air felt. He missed the views of the surf.

"The court date has been set for the seventeenth. We will have witnesses lined up as well as potential jurors planted. We should have no problem with this one," Sammy said.

Sammy was thorough. His dark spiky hair and laissez fair attitude towards the dress code belied his intelligence and ruthlessness. He was efficient and dedicated. Jake had always despised his cool nature.

"Nicholaisen never saw it coming," Gary remarked. He seemed a little put out by Violet and Sammy interrupting. Everyone was vying for the assistant director position. The entire team had the disease. Except for Jake. He could care less.

He sipped the water. He was disappointed. It was tap water. In an organization as powerful as the Galbraith Alliance, it was surprising he could not get good purified water. He pushed the glass across the gleaming desk, watching the wake of condensation with mild interest.

"What is your input, Monday?" Lars did not look at him.

Jake stared at the Director. Lars never surprised him. He had expected to be singled out at some point.

"Bring on the next assignment, I say."

This brought a wide smile to Lars' mouth. He laughed softly.

"Mr. Monday you are always in a hurry to kill, are you not? Rest assured that you will be given a chance to do just that very soon. However, I need your assessment. And I need to know why you insisted on remaining at the scene to wait on the cleaners."

Jake shrugged.

"I was a little lonely."

Gary laughed. Violet shook her head.

"I see. And your assessment of the assignment?" Lars prompted.

Jake sighed.

"Flawless. Like Gary said, he never saw it coming. Most criminals don't expect to be tied to a crime they never committed. It was a classic case of assassination of character and murder of pride."

Lars squirreled up his mouth and glanced at a terminal.

"How do you evaluate your personal performance?" He asked, without looking at him.

"Like the rest of the mission, it was flawless."

"I see. Yet, you explain your dalliance with the cleaners as an attempt to assuage your loneliness. Do we need to reconsider your solitary role in future missions?"

Jake tried to contain his irritation. This was not the first time the Director had suggested that he should be a member of a team or at least have a partner.

"I can handle it on my own. More operatives simply multiply the chances of disaster."

"Or provides an assurance that mission parameters have been followed," Lars suggested.

Jake could feel a cold chill run down his spine. He fought the urge to shiver.

"I know you do not doubt my loyalty or my efficiency," Jake threatened through clenched teeth.

He could see Gary cringe out of the corner of his eye. Violet smirked. She was probably pleased that he was falling on his sword so effectively. Sammy seemed interested in the narrow straw in his coffee.

"Of course not. I was merely suggesting that your talents could be concentrated to perform specific tasks while another team mate could bring different set of aptitudes to bear in conjunction with your own considerable endowments."

Jake heard Gary conceal a snicker.

Lars smirked. Jake watched him carefully. He could not guess his intent or his attitude. The rest of the room held their breath. Jake sensed danger.

"I won't give in to this without a fight."

A look passed across Lars' face and the moment was gone.

"No one is fighting. Just consider my proposal," Lars conceded.

And the matter was done.

Lars consulted his screen and asked the next question. Gary seemed to be relieved to be called on. The tension in the room decreased and Jake was left wondering what had just transpired.

The rest of the briefing was uneventful. Jake barely registered the information. He understood that the client that had hired them was pleased. Ultimately, that was the goal, but the overall performance of the team was what concerned Lars the most.

They worked beyond the law, and therefore every move, every detail was scrutinized. No trace of their existence, let alone their intent or connections, could ever surface on a government report anywhere in the world.

Jake had worked with Galbraith Alliance for almost a year now. His recruitment, promotion, and track record were undocumented yet famous within the organization. He felt like a rock-star most times. He was treated to long weekends, beautiful escorts, exotic locations, a palatial estate in Quebec, a penthouse apartment in New York, and some of the most expensive cars in production.

Yet, at debriefings he felt as though his abilities and methods were called into question with increasing occurrence. It was not that he felt he was perfect. Jake merely found the two polar opposite attitudes to be disconcerting.

Was he the prodigy they promoted him to be, or was he not to be trusted with even a simple assignment?

As the meeting wrapped up, he was suffused with this question. His mouth was set and his mind elsewhere.

"Jake. I would like a word with you for a moment, please," Lars said.

Jake squinted. He detected a note of displeasure in the director's voice.

"Sure."

"Please come to my office," he said as he led the way.

Jake glanced back at Gary. Gary shrugged and put two thumbs up as he slipped out into the brightly lit hall.

He followed Lars down a short hall lined with expensive wood paneling. He noted the security cameras hidden in the molding at the ceiling and tucked in the corners near doorways.

Jake would wonder sometimes if each camera was manned by a single individual or if each were hooked to a super computer that would analyze every second of footage and produce reports. Either speculation would not be too far-fetched for the size, scope, and paranoia that the Galbraith Alliance represented.

Jake marveled at how he had arrived here. It was not the first time. It haunted him, sometimes. Not the killing. No, that seemed categorically wrong. The killing he had long ago compartmentalized and could easily put aside as outside of himself. But, his career, this organization, his superiors, he had a difficult time envisioning himself choosing this.

He remembered the feeling he had as he had watched the coast in Ventura. It had been so peaceful watching the waves crash into the private beach. He had felt an odd pang. It was as if he had missed something in his life, longed for a past he could not recall. It was a siren's call to him. It penetrated his dreams at night and left him in a cold sweat.

Lars never turned back. This did not reassure him.

Jake wanted to care. He really did.

His ambivalence to his destiny here was dangerous. Not only was each mission a potential threat to his existence, but his entire occupation represented a danger to his personal well-being.

He considered his boss. Lars was a professional, a perfectionist. Jake had never sought to ingratiate himself to any of his employers and had maintained a personal and professional distance. The same was not true with the other members of his team. Lars had never threatened him, had never raised his voice. Despite this, Jake had always detected a note of hostility from Lars but had never pinpointed its source.

Lars was a large man. Rumor around the office was that he used to be a professional wrestler. Jake could tell that his hands were accustomed to violence. The knuckles were swollen and the joints of his fingers were permanently bent as though Lars had been squeezing a particularly tough fruit.

Jake tried to imagine Lars picking his nose. That brought a smile to his face. One of those digits would not fit in most human nostrils, and Jake was not certain Lars could straighten out the finger enough to get it in past the first knuckle.

"Come in," Lars invited as he held open the door.

His chest was massive. The suit he wore could not disguise his girth. His reading glasses had been stowed somewhere. His nose, bent and flaring, was thrust in the air. Jake noted that Lars had missed a spot on his chin shaving this morning.

Jake smelled cigars and expensive cologne as he passed by seeking a chair.

Lars did not sit behind his desk. Instead, he leaned back against a book shelf, his buttocks on a credenza. He reached over and poured a finger of dark caramel colored whiskey.

He nodded to Jake, an unspoken question in his gaze.

"No thanks," Jake declined. He was sure it was not wise to impair his thinking any more than it already was at this moment.

Lars smiled as if he had read his thoughts.

He sipped the whiskey and grimaced.

_Johnny Walker, the breakfast of champions_ , Jake thought.

"I suppose you are wondering why I called you here."

"You want to offer me a raise?"

Lars did not chuckle. He scratched his forehead with the hand holding the tumbler.

"Nah. I am not authorized to offer you a raise. Besides, I think you are compensated adequately." Lars did not look at him. He pushed off from the credenza and crossed to his desk. He put down the tumbler and picked up a file.

"You want to assign my next mission already? I thought I would get a week or two off."

"You are getting a month off," Lars said as he flipped through the file casually.

Jake could not see the contents. They looked like black-and-white photos.

"A month?"

"Until further notice. With pay, of course. We want you to occupy a new residence."

"I had plans to stay in New York through the holidays."

Lars smiled.

"I didn't know you were sentimental."

Jake shrugged.

"No particular reason. I just heard a Harry Connick, Jr. holiday album and the urge hit me."

"I see. Well, where we are sending you will probably sate that urge."

"Really, how?"

"We are sending you to Russia."

"Russia? Why? Where?"

Lars handed him the file.

"All the information you need is in that packet. You will meet your new team in two weeks. Your travel arrangements, identity, currency, and destination are all in there." He pointed to the file and sipped the whiskey again.

Jake sat there in the leather seat holding the file in one hand. It was heavy, its sides drooping down threatening to spill its contents.

"New team?"

Lars shrugged.

"I suppose you will know a few members of the team. Gary and Violet are being reassigned there as well."

"Wait. Are you saying that I am no longer working alone?"

"Your next assignment will be determined once you arrive. You will be out of the loop for one month and then you will be informed of your next assignment."

"You aren't answering the question."

Lars raised his eyebrows.

"But I am, Mr. Monday. Now, you should begin making your arrangements and preparing to leave."

Jake got to his feet and tucked the file under his arm. He paused. Several other questions bubbled to the surface.

"Will you be directing the Russian operations?"

Lars took another sip and sat in the large leather chair behind his massive desk. He took a deep breath.

"I am not permitted to return to Mother Russia, comrade. And what makes you think your next operation will be in Russia?" The look in his eyes told Jake that he expected Jake to read something into what he was asking. Jake was too irritated to read between lines.

Jake swallowed his retort. He nodded.

"I see. It has been a pleasure to work for you, then," Jake said.

"We have not seen the last of one another, Mr. Monday."

Jake had no idea how to respond to that. He turned and left the office, shutting the door with a practiced civility. What he wanted to do was to slam it so hard that the hinges broke.

Through gritted teeth he made his way to the corner office that was his daily companion. His secretary did not look up as he passed, a gloom of anger and disappointment hanging around his shoulders.

He put the file on top of his desk, unopened. He had some calls to make and an appointment with Sergei Vissarionovich at eleven. He hoped that he could lose himself in the sweat and pain of training exercise.

Jake tried to focus. He brought his laptop back to life and opened his contact management software. It was a proprietary, time-stamped, security-protected, and sophisticated tool. It was synced to his contact list on his cell phone. With the software, he could bring up a GPS location as well as limited satellite feed of the location of anyone on the list. It also provided him with video and audio surveillance in real time. All at the touch of a button.

He stared at the names on the list. The name he chose would show up on an internal database and the conversation would be recorded. He knew that everything he did was watched, recorded, and analyzed.

When he was in the field, Jake never considered these nuances. In the office, though, he was constantly aware of the eyes and the visibility of his every move. It was daunting.

He considered his conversation with Lars. At first, he had been almost pleased to lose Lars as a director. His demeanor was too constricting. His expectations were too demanding. Jake felt that he would never be able to completely please the man.

Jake clicked on a name and waited while his phone began the series of beeps to indicate that the number had been dialed. He touched the speakerphone and waited.

"Jake! Why are you calling me? I am still here in the building."

"I hear you are being reassigned to Russia."

Some hesitation as Gary considered his response. He was as aware of their situation as Jake was. No one was impervious to the danger. Not even the head tech specialist.

"Yeah. Cold snap, too. We better pack warm. I hear the Slavic girls really know how to party."

"We can only hope. I just wanted you to know I was glad we will be working together again."

Jake listened for the telltale signs of Gary's lies.

"Yeah. Me too. Yeah. There should be some time for us to get into some trouble, I think. I know some guys I went to school with that live in Moscow. Maybe they can get us some access to some parties."

"Sounds great, Gary. See you in two weeks."

"Yeah. Super. See ya," Gary said. His voice sounded genuine, but Jake knew he was nervous.

Gary was always nervous when he lied.

"See ya," Jake said.

It was all he really needed to know. Gary was not going to Russia. And neither was he.

Jake reached across to the file and finally opened it.
Chapter 4

## Let's Get Physical

The first five minutes of every training session were the worst. Jake hated stretching. He felt so vulnerable. He was on his back with his right knee pulled to his nose.

He could feel the stretch, which was good. As soon as he released, he could feel the blood in his head and the feeling that if someone would come up to him right now and administer a swift kick in his ribs, he would be a dead man.

He rolled to his side and he was staring right at Violet's tight bottom. He looked away, embarrassed. Violet was interesting. Complicated. Ambitious. Calculating. He imagined that she had taken that very place on the floor on purpose. He had almost fallen for the trap.

Jake was still trying to wrap his mind around the contents of the file. Why had Lars lied? Was his office tapped? Were they being pursued by the government?

He had been assured that the nightly cleaning by the janitors included a thorough de-bugging. In addition, it was his understanding that the walls and windows of the Galbraith Tower were practically soundproof.

Normally, it would not seem odd, all this secrecy. They were, after all, an organization that was committed to terror and assassination, white collar crimes and embezzlement, money laundering and protection of criminal assets. Secrecy and clandestine behavior was the norm.

However, his conversation with the Director this morning had been odd in that there seemed to be no overt reasons to conceal the nature of his assignment. He could only speculate.

Perhaps it was client-related. Sometimes they were hired by entities larger than themselves. Once, a small African nation had come to them wanting arms consultation and the assassination of a tribal leader. It had taken them weeks to discern that every communication and meeting they had held was merely an attempt to infiltrate their organization and recruit individual talent. To the chagrin of the Deputy Director, Lynn Smith, the entire computer network had been hacked, and a malicious worm embedded.

When dealing with criminals, it was wise to ensure your friends were vetted.

Sergei stalked around the room, pacing the perimeter with his hands behind his back as various Galbraith employees stretched, grunted, and complained. His regimen was famous throughout the company. It was a mixture of Krav Magra, Spetznaz Systema, Russian military Sambo, and several other forms of close quarter combat methods and movements. The focus was on using the environment, employing no-nonsense tactics designed for survival, and performing with a high level of aggression. There was little room for spins, kicks, and fancy leaps. This was not Hollywood, it was life-and-death.

The gym was crowded today. There was barely room to do the next stretch. Sergei called out the movement. Each of the students pulled their torsos up to sitting upon their knees and put their right leg straight back behind them, knee down. Their left feet were planted under their backsides. Sergei instructed them to move the foot back until it was under their other knee.

It was an awkward movement, but effective at stretching the hip flexors, hips, and glutes. These were typically some of the tightest muscles in the body and with muscle tightness came slowness of movement.

The stretch required that they tilt their pelvis outward slowly just a few inches on the fulcrum of their foot placed under the knee of the right leg. They repeated the same procedure by tilting to the inside and then did the same stretch with the other leg.

Jake glanced ahead of him at his fellow employees. They all were lost in the exercise. Soon, they would be paired up and throwing each other all over the room, pounding each other with training sticks and attacking each other with rubber knives.

Jake enjoyed this part of his day almost as much as the sauna time after the workout. Mostly, it was because he excelled at martial arts and so success at defeating his opponent was as satisfying as the relaxation he felt winding down in the heat and steam.

He caught Violet glancing at him as they transitioned to the final stretching move. He tried to ignore her. She was likely just trying to distract him. She had been trying to get paired with him during training for almost a month now. She was determined to beat him and prove her skills and prowess. Perhaps it was simpler than that. Maybe she just wanted a chance to seduce him by demonstrating her physicality.

He was not unaware at how he was viewed by the female employees. He was sought after as if he was a prize to be won, a land to be conquered, a mountain to be climbed, or a bridge to be crossed. It was not an uncomfortable position to which to be subjected, but he honestly found it more amusing than alluring.

He supposed that sexual exploitation was a two-way street and that women were as welcome to flex their considerable prowess as men were. As the object of these attempts, though, he found that he was progressively astounded at the brazen and shameless methods being employed by women that he normally found demure, professional, or quite independent.

Of course, the normal man's pursuit of the opposite sex was rarely a sophisticated, low-key, or classy example of courtship or allurement. Men were such klutzes at seduction, it was almost embarrassing. Women on the other hand were more creative, had more control of their own position, and, frankly, had more to offer in the long run than their male counterparts.

Jake found himself smiling just thinking about it. It was good to get his mind off of the upcoming "secret" mission. He hoped he would get a partner to spar that outweighed him considerably or had some high-level training in the martial arts. He was in the mood for a challenge.

He licked his lips thinking of some of the more aggressive Krav Magra moves to put an enemy on the ground quickly. When it came to fighting, he found he was instinctive, but fought better if he planned the fight in his head prior to engaging. He was certainly flexible, but since many of the encounters for which they trained were over in a matter of seconds, planning the first move and the first counterattack were often the only considerations needed.

Sergei called them into line and paired them off. Couples would then find a spot and begin the slow sparring, flitting jabs and uppercuts, blocking with slaps, forearm shivers, and elbows.

Jake was paired with Violet. She smirked and then winked at him. Jake was aware that Violet was very adroit, but he did not imagine she would be much of a match. He fought the urge to be overconfident.

Sergei, normally staid and humorless, revealed an uneven set of small teeth as he crossed his arms in front of himself and watched as the combatants paired off. His mirth was short-lived as he corrected and pushed students who did not meet his high standards of combat.

"No. Not like that! No one moves like that. Get your feet under you, closer together. You aren't wrestling like an American. You are in no Sumo match. Turn, turn! That's it! Grab his belt! Grab it!"

He would yell like that, short staccato bursts of cursing, counsel, and coaxing for the entire ninety minutes. Jake looked forward to hearing his broken English and his demanding regimen.

Violet was putting on her sparring gloves. She had already donned her head gear, her hair tucked neatly into the padded straps. She wore tight spandex work out pants and a grey tank top already stained with perspiration.

Jake put a heavy chest pad over his head and strapped on his head gear—a combination of a mask meant for a catcher in baseball and a fencer. He grabbed a knife and began making some feints and jabs, ducking and keeping his elbows out from his sides.

He lunged, keeping the blade of the knife flat in a modified saber grip. Alternatively, he would bring his elbows down to protect his body and then bring his knife arm up to sweep in. He switched the knife to a backwards grip. The training knife handle was too big for his hand, so he compensated by keeping the blade out and his grip on the outer quillion. He missed the finger ring on his custom knife. It was designed for using in his off-hand so that he could draw and attack with his knife while holding his pistol.

He sliced the air with a forward punch, bringing the knife edge out as he brought the punch across his body and collapsed his chest. The Krav Magra technique of blocking while punching, commonly called "bursting," was designed to propel a defender's force from their legs in a simultaneous defensive and offensive move. This is what he expected from Violet.

She had chosen to be the defender first because of that technique. At least, that was his guess. His plan was to attack high in a common mugger's move—go for the jugular. That would be his feint, forcing her to block high and punch high. This would leave her exposed at her middle, and more importantly, at her legs.

"You ready, Monday?" Her grin was seductive. She was confident. Jake understood that she had worked out an agreement with Sergei.

He shrugged and returned the smile.

He glanced across the room at Sergei. Sure enough, he was watching them intently with a smug look on his face. Jake suddenly wanted a chance to spar their instructor.

"I am as ready as ever. You spend much time in martial arts over at Yale?"

She raised her eyebrows at that and punched her sparring gloves together, sending talcum flying in the air.

"Studied Tukong Moosul for five years under my grandfather's friend from Korea," she said proudly. Jake did not miss the intent. She meant to give him a sense of false security. Although Tukong Moosul was a deadly art, it incorporated many twists, kicks, and quick forward punches as well as more subtle throws, grabs, and pressure point exploitations.

Jake knew she would go for a more aggressive, quick attack meant to embarrass him or send him to the floor in one or two moves. He was even more certain than before that she would use a bursting attack.

He decided to use his first move to set her up.

"Alright. Let's do this," he said.

He stepped in quickly, the padded armor around his body constricting around his neck as he brought his knife hand high in a jab from shoulder height. Violet was six inches shorter than him, so the angle was awkward, but he knew that this would work to his advantage for his counter.

He expected the block. She intersected his forearm with hers and brought it down at an angle away from her body. What he did not expect was her next move.

He had been anticipating her heavy blow to his chest or neck region, as per the bursting technique. He had planned to counter by collapsing his back and absorbing the blow as they had been trained during the Spetznaz portion of Sergei's program.

Jake even had his feet forward and his toes in so that he could execute a side step aimed at hitting the pressure point on the side of her knee and collapsing her base. He intended to follow up with a tackle and a left hook to the temple and a quick right elbow to the nose as he fell on top of her.

None of that happened, though.

Instead, she stepped inside his stance, grabbed his off hand by the wrist in a painful grip, and twisted his hand outward. To compliment this move, she stomped on his instep of his right foot and pivoted her hips. The pain and the momentum sent him in a dizzying spin to the mat.

Before Jake had an opportunity to be embarrassed at the turn of events, he felt Violet collapse her body on top of him, wrapping his left leg between hers, one foot planted in his groin, the other crossed over. Her gloved hands pulled on his left arm, turning the wrist up and around from its natural position.

The pain was more disconcerting than his shame.

Jake quickly blunted the pain and put it outside of himself. Through gritted teeth, he pushed off the ground in a wild attempt to flip his body over and reverse her hold. The only way he could save face was to use his superior strength and focus.

She laughed and pushed down, her foot squeezing his groin and sending his shoulder blades apart. A flare of fire and sharp pain erupted between his shoulder blades. But that pain was dulled by the ache he felt creeping into his lower abdomen from the damage her foot had dealt to his family jewels. Jake closed his eyes.

That would be a dull ache until dinnertime, he estimated.

He raised his right foot and kicked out at her head. Both of her hands were occupied in pulling his arm out of its socket while breaking his wrist at the same time. She could not protect herself. He heard her grunt. He tried it again and heard Sergei laugh. The whole gym had stopped to watch the spectacle, he saw through a red haze.

Jake cursed inside and planted his toe under her chin near where jaw line met the soft tissue of her neck. He pushed. Violet screamed. It was a low, guttural scream. Perhaps he had made her angry. Now that he understood that she had been practicing her Sambo, Jake did not care.

He kicked once more, this time a sweep. He needed the momentum to swing his body out of the lock she had on his arm. At the same time, he leaned forward quickly, pushing his wrist painfully toward her, releasing the pressure from his shoulder. He hoped he would not break his wrist.

He realized with a mounting fear that his left arm was numb.

But, he was finally free. He scrambled sideways, seeking the toe of her foot with his right hand. He grabbed it with his thumb on the top of her arch and pulled down as he rolled.

Violet growled and rolled with him, desperately trying to regain the hold on his legs.

And then he was free, rolling to his knees and lurching forward to his feet. He whirled to meet her advance and managed to block two quick jabs. He had lost the knife and the armor was cumbersome.

She was quicker, more aggressive, and had him cornered.

Jake fell into a quick trance, realizing that he could only make things worse if he did not get his head back into this game.

As Violet closed on him, blood staining her perfect white teeth, Jake widened his stance and brought his both hands out to his sides. Violet let out a scream as she brought her foot up in a front kick.

Jake dodged, used her body as a fulcrum, and ended up behind her. He brought his hands together behind her neck and pushed her supporting leg in from behind, pushing down with his weight over her shoulders. She collapsed.

He could hear her leg pop.

_That is unfortunate. I hope the company medical plan will cover that,_ he thought. The voice in his head was full of poison.

"No!" Violet cried out.

Jake saw the knife on the ground beside him. He reached down to pick it up, watching Violet grab her injured left leg. He stepped up to her just as she jumped to standing, hobbling on one leg.

"Done?" He asked. Jake held the knife at his side, his stance relaxed.

The anger he saw in her eyes was shocking.

"For now, pretty boy," she said through clenched teeth. She spit blood on the mat.

Their audience was turning back to their sparring. The room was much quieter, several of the pairs half-heartedly going through the motions.

"Sorry about your leg," he offered weakly.

She glowered at him.

"It's just a sprain. It will heal. I won't go easy on you next time," Violet said as she limped off toward the dressing room. She threw the gloves into a corner.

Sergei offered her a smile and an approving nod.

She just lowered her head and continued on, the sweat dripping down her matted hair as she pulled off her head gear.

Sergei sauntered over, his eyes scanning the pathetic performances around him with a wry smile.

"You got the upper hand, comrade. You fight well against women. They should not pursue you so much, I would think. Dangerous."

Sergei Vissarionovich was rarely in a joking mood. Jake did not feel like being the object of his amusement.

"I do what I must to win. Isn't that what you teach us?"

He chuckled.

"I teach no man to play hard-to-get. You take it too seriously, Sergei thinks."

With that he turned and yelled at the rest of the room, his normal demeanor returned.

"Everyone stop! No more bad fighting. Go run bleachers! Twenty minutes then shower."

Jake removed the armor, his clothes soaked in sweat.

Sergei turned back to him.

"I think you should go to sauna now before it gets crowded. I think you need extra humidity today." He laughed as he sauntered back to his office. His assistants picked up the sparring equipment and wiped up Violet's blood from the mat.

Jake frowned and then walked solemnly to the showers. He would be bruised and battered for days. Mostly his pride, though. Maybe Sergei was right. He took things too seriously. He needed a little fun. He made a mental note to find out what Gary had planned this weekend as he put the rubber knife back in its bin and hung the sweaty armor back on its hook.
Chapter 5

## I Like the Night Life

Jake looked at the lights of the city sparkling across the waters of Long Island Sound. Jake found that this was his favorite way to experience New York. Whether out here or looking at the city from the south up the Lower Bay, the city looked so clean, pristine, and orderly. He pulled the collar of his overcoat up to cover his neck. The winter wind was brisk out here on the deck of the yacht.

Everyone else was inside. Drinks were being poured and Jake was uncomfortable with the level of sexual tension in the cabin. Six couples and several single people mingled in the confines of the multi-million dollar yacht. Lawyers, commercial real estate brokers, ad executives, and surgeons mingled with actresses, technology specialists, models, and professional assassins. He cringed, thinking of the prospects of the evening.

_Why are you here, then?_ Jake asked himself.

He was startled to attention as a figure came slinking up to him in the semi-darkness. Jake had hoped this part of the deck would remain private. He needed some space to think. He was disappointed to see someone had found him.

"I love the lights out here. It makes the city look like a huge Christmas ornament," Giselle said, her breath catching in the frigid wind.

Jake smiled.

Gary would want to take credit for this "date." Jake knew that Gary secretly coveted Ms. Chaput's company for himself. He never should have told Gary that he needed a break. The yacht was owned by one of Gary's friends at Galbraith, Paul Weston III, an executive in recruiting who had rich parents and even richer in-laws. Paul was asleep below deck, his wife still partying loudly with the revelers in the cabin.

Giselle Chaput was a remarkable specimen, Jake had to admit. Her porcelain skin was delicate, her arms well-defined, and her hair like a long, flowing, golden silk scarf. Jake had guessed that she was a model.

_Man, was I ever wrong,_ Jake thought.

"Are you staying in New York long?"

At this Giselle smiled wryly and arched an eyebrow.

"I suppose I could be persuaded to stay a little longer. Perhaps I could stay to watch the ball drop in the Big Apple this year."

Jake had been avoiding her advances all evening. , Since she was technically his date, he should have expected some interest in further contact. Her pursuit was mostly subtle. However alluring her charms, Jake found himself increasingly uncomfortable.

_You are just crazy,_ he chastised himself.

"The holidays in New York are amazing," he admitted as he turned back to the lights.

He felt her get closer to him and take his arm in hers.

"It is so cold out here," she said.

"I like the cold."

She put her head on his shoulder, facing the lights. He resisted the temptation to turn to look at her face. He knew he would not be able to resist the enchantment of her illumined by the lights reflecting off the water. He closed his eyes, concentrating. He tried to avoid the image of her blue eyes sparkling, looking up at him.

"Gary says you are very private. Very shy."

"Gary talks too much," he said, allowing a smile to touch his lips.

She chuckled at this.

"That is what my friend Melissan says, too."

"So you aren't a model, after all. Are you sure?"

"Oh, I am positive."

"So, how long have you been working for Sinegem?"

"It might be hard to believe, but I was recruited in 2009 when Sinegem first became publicly traded."

"Who owned it before that?"

"China, of course."

"I see. So were you always a corporate spy?"

He could feel her smile against his shoulder.

"No. I was a model."

"Ah. So I wasn't too far off."

"Sinegem saw that I could be quite persuasive and began training me to infiltrate other companies to obtain corporate secrets, recruit key personnel, or act as a liaison in matters regarding mergers or take-overs."

Jake was impressed. He wanted to be ambivalent.

"I have to admit that you seem to have quite a resume."

She looked up at him, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. Her hand snaked its way inside his coat and caressed his chest through his shirt.

"I didn't know this was an interview, Mr. Monday," she said, her voice sultry.

"I usually have my dates more properly vetted, to be sure," he said.

"Speaking of qualifications, Mr. Monday, I still do not know what you do for a living," she teased.

Jake understood that under that teasing tone was a serious question. For a moment, he considered telling the truth. Would the truth surprise her? Would it push her away? He could only hope. Despite what his body was saying, he did not need this.

"Once your interview is finished, I will be happy to answer your question."

She raised her eyebrows and stepped away from him. She crossed her arms in front of her. She did not wear a coat. He almost felt sorry for her.

"What more do you need to know about me? You already said I was impressive." She sounded closer to serious now. He preferred that. He didn't want to cloud his impression of her with a false sense of motivation or intent. Honesty was always better.

Gary thought that Giselle had been his idea. Jake knew the truth. This was a sanctioned Galbraith meeting. Gary was a convenient middle man. He would be shocked to know how he had been used. His ego would be bruised for days. Sinegem was a client. If the material in the folder was any indication, Giselle might just be his next assignment. She had not been named, but the synopsis had indicated a corporate spy was threatening corporate interests.

This meeting was even more curious than it seemed.

"I am just being cautious."

She looked at him warily.

"What have you been told?"

He shrugged.

"I don't think it matters what others say. I need to hear it from you directly."

"What, exactly?" She had not moved her arms. She was obviously cold. Jake enjoyed making her squirm.

"Why Sinegem wants to hire an assassin."

He let it hang there in the moist, cold air. He watched her closely, looking for surprise. He was disappointed. She never batted an eye.

_Why do I always underestimate women?_ Jake asked himself.

"I thought you came here tonight to have some fun," she replied, disappointment gracing each word like icing dripping from a cake.

"This is fun."

She shook her head and took his arm again, nuzzling beside him. She felt colder than before. Stiff. The magic had died. He had offended her. It was better this way. No more pretending.

He was not sure she would answer. He tried to make himself impervious to her charms. It was difficult. Somehow, he felt that something more was at stake here than information.

"I have a different idea of fun," she said huskily.

He smiled. She did not give up easily.

"I am sure you do, Giselle. For me to trust you, I will need us to put aside our attraction for each other for a moment. We need to be honest with one another." He pulled away from her as he said this. He wanted to look her in the eye so that she could see he was serious. He knew it would be wise to leave the door open, though, just to keep her interested.

She sighed and looked out into the night.

"I had guessed you came out here in the cold to be alone. I thought you could use some company."

He smiled.

"I am enjoying your company so far." He removed his overcoat and draped it over her shoulders. She would be more candid if she were not chattering through her teeth.

She smiled, a hint of shyness.

_Where did Sinegem find this girl?_ Jake wondered.

"Darius Electric Cooperative is resisting the take-over. They have hired some...unsavory personnel to protect their interests. We are seeking help in removing this obstacle."

He was familiar with Darius Electric. They were the client that Lars had contracted. Apparently, it was a side job. Again, curious. Jake did not make it a habit to second guess his assignments. He was a tool, a finely tuned machine that did its job without complaint. The question that nagged him was what Darius would want with a woman like Giselle.

With hundreds of thousands of businesses in the world making millions and billions of dollars annually, it always shocked Jake how ruthless they could be when their livelihood was threatened. These were supposed to be law-abiding citizens. Of course, the closer he got to organizations like Sinegem, the more absurd the idea of pristine or innocent corporations seemed.

"And Sinegem seeks to eliminate the security that is protecting the owners and board so they can influence them directly to meet their demands. I guess that is the definition of a hostile takeover."

She did not smile at that. She bit her lip and stared off across the choppy waters. Her breath plumed into frost around her head. She held his overcoat tight across her and shivered again.

"It isn't as simple as that," she said, her voice shaking.

Jake swallowed. He could not tell if she was emotional or merely cold.

"What is so complicated as a big company trying to swallow up a small company hoping to get bigger?"

"For starters, the unsavory personnel that Darius has employed is Galbraith."

He put his hands in his pockets and smirked. On a deep level, he loved irony. It made life exciting.

"I see," Jake replied. Pretending was like telling a lie. Both were easy to do if you could convince yourself first. "So, how do I fit into this equation, Giselle?"

"I need you to allow me to do my job, Mr. Monday," she looked up at him, her eyes glassy.

It is probably just the cold wind, Jake thought.

"No one has ordered me to do anything about you at all. I am just a puppet on a string, after all. I don't know what you have been told that I do..."

She put one finger to his lips and the other found its way to his chest again. The overcoat slipped to the deck with a sharp thud.

_I should remember to keep my weapons under my shirt or something,_ Jake chided himself.

"I know all about you, Mr. Monday. I know all I need to know. Sinegem wants you, Mr. Monday. Come to work for us. You don't need Galbraith anymore. Our contract with your organization is in jeopardy over this. There is no need for you to continue to work for an organization with such little loyalty. Besides, you are a known commodity in our business."

As tempting as that sounded, he could not ignore the alarm in his head.

He looked down at her. He found that looking into her eyes was harder to do than he had expected. They were so blue they seemed almost electric. He cleared his throat and stepped back.

Jake reached down and retrieved the overcoat and put it across his arm, keeping the gun against his stomach.

"It is getting too cold out here to stand around like this. We should join the others," he said with finality.

To her credit, Giselle remained stoic. A playful smiled tugged at the corners of her mouth and she arched her eyebrows.

"Of course, Mr. Monday. I will look forward to continuing our interview at a future time. Perhaps soon."

He nodded and licked his lips.

"Perhaps," he managed as he took her arm and began pretending again. Together, they walked into the warmth and bright lights of the teak- and chrome-lined cabin.
Chapter 6

## Home Alone

Jake stretched out on his leather sectional. Sometimes he liked sleeping out here. It made him feel less lonely. He felt more like a bachelor or college student driven to excesses and just crashing.

The only problem was that he could not remember ever being a college student. A diploma on his wall claimed that he had graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree from Purdue. A photo by his bedside had a picture with him partying with some apparent friends at a college bar. He did not recognize any of them—not even the blonde draped across his lap drinking directly from a beer tap. Next to it was another degree: a Master in Criminal Science from Ohio State.

These photos belonged to him. He knew it. They were there by his bed. Somehow, he felt they were not actually a part of him. They were someone else's life. Some other time. He had given up on puzzling it all out.

He took this lack of memory and the mystery of his life in stride. He lay back and tried to relax. He did not want to wake with a stiff neck. He stared up at the ceiling in the darkness, wondering about the evening he just had. He managed to escape with his dignity and his sobriety. He could not say the same for the majority of the people who attended the party.

When he arrived home, the snow had piled up so high that he felt like he had to walk up hill just to enter the building. The porter had long before shuffled off to manage his two hour nap in the linen closet.

Giselle could melt the snow at his doorstep. She was that hot. He tried not to think of her specifically.

Jake made a mental note to check out Darius Electric Cooperative in the morning. He was not the one who usually did the legwork and research. He was more point-and-click _. Mark a target and watch me shoot._ Sometimes he felt like the hunter in that old Atari game.

He listened to the sounds of the leather sectional creak beneath him, the hum of his refrigerator in the kitchen, the knocks and pings of the old building, the cooing of birds outside his penthouse windows. He glanced out the bay of windows, expecting to see more snow falling. It had stopped.

He sighed. He was restless. He could not wait until morning. He had to know.

Jake swung his feet onto the floor and flung the quilt off. He stared at it for a second, wondering again where he had gotten it. He shook his head. It was three in the morning and he was not operating at capacity. Tomorrow was Saturday and he did not need to go to the office to get the information he needed.

He shuffled into the kitchen and flicked the switch to his secure network. He waited as the log in screen blinked for a few moments and watched the stupid circle spin and the Galbraith world logo revolve. He sighed. He should be in bed. Maybe the couch was a bad idea tonight.

He logged in and began surfing anyway. He wanted something to drink. He figured he would get the research done quickly and then reward himself with a glass of milk.

Who knew assassins wore Armani, flossed regularly and drank skim?

The information on the Darius website was the usual cheery and overindulgent propaganda in which most companies participate. Environment this, safety that. Stockholder shares protected, profits maximized, customer retention and satisfaction the best in the world, et cetera. What Jake wanted was the personnel, the big wigs, the locations, and the dollars.

The things that mattered were buried, of course. He could see the place for contacting them, but it was just an email dump to the administrator. Not helpful. Eight-hundred number and industry links. Not helpful. Under the site map, he found it, though. Company secure log in. He plugged in the hacking device that Gary had gifted him for Christmas and watched as its red lights illumined the darkness of his breakfast nook.

While he waited, he got up and poured himself a glass of milk. He liked the way it felt going down his throat, coating it with milky goodness.

_I should stay up until three more often_ , Jake observed.

Gary's device beeped. He glanced at the terminal and saw that he had hacked into their intranet. He felt a little dirty. Irony was so entertaining. Darius was sure to meet with him on Monday. Saturday in the wee hours of the morning, he was going to access all their grubby little secrets.

He hoped he could find some dirt on them so that he could watch their faces on Monday. If he had ever played baseball, maybe a curve ball had been his favorite pitch. He smirked. He wished he could remember.

He sat down at the terminal, the glass of milk at his side. He navigated the Darius intranet, wondering if their security protocols were as lazy and uninteresting as their public site. He stopped when he got to the daily memos.

Jake could see entire conversations. There were perhaps hundreds of thousands of megabytes of files and files inside of files. He had simply clicked on a folder that was marked "Trash." Evidently, it was a repository for everyone's deleted files.

He opened the first document he found. It was like panning for gold and he just found the mother lode.

He stared at the letter, reading it and not fully believing what he saw.

Calvin,

We will only work with Galbraith if they can get Mr. Monday to take the assignment to eliminate Ms. Chaput. You claim that he is the best they have to offer. We cannot afford to have her to continue to meddle with our affairs.

We can no longer tolerate Sinegem bullying us. We need to send a statement. Get a meeting together with Lars as soon as you can.

Your father has helped us before. I trust his loyalty to our cause will be sufficient for him to see our plight. I am counting on you. Darius is counting on you. Make this happen and we can finally make your promotion official.

\--T

Jake was stunned. He had no idea that Lars had a child. That would mean that someone had slept with him. The prospect of that was both repulsive and incredible.

From the correspondence, Jake had to assume that Galbraith had aided them before. Something told him it was for more than just some routine accounting work.

But, why were they demanding that he be the one who pulled the plug? And was Giselle really that annoying? Surely, they could just pen a strongly worded letter to Sinegem threatening a lawsuit, right? And, why were they protecting their company so vehemently?

Jake was sure that if he dug any further, he would be amazed at the secrets he could unveil. His luck in finding this correspondence so quickly was certainly evidence that Darius had more skeletons in its closet than Newt Gingrich.

He sat back, exiting the company intranet site. He was sure he would not be able to sleep tonight.

Jake got up from his desk and poured another glass of milk from the refrigerator. Unlike many bachelors, he had never developed the habit of drinking straight from the carton. He stared at the glass, the milk an opaque swirl, a bubble popping to the surface.

He was good at avoiding the difficult questions in his life. He could not stand to reflect too much. He could not abide self-doubt. As he stood there in the kitchen, his feet cold on the marble floor, he wished that he could go home.

Where ever that was.
Chapter 7

## All That Glitters

Gary pushed his glasses back up on his nose. Jake knew he had struck a nerve. Gary was the closest thing he had to a friend, but his access to information was Jake's key to getting what he wanted. Jake would punch him around if needed. He hoped that it would not come to that. It would hardly be fair.

"So, you think Lars dreamed up that Russian excursion for the company's benefit while scheduling this side trip?"

"I am sure of it," Jake replied.

"I don't know, Jake. It doesn't make sense. Sinegem is one of our clients. Why would Lars authorize a hit on one of their corporate spies?"

"I have no idea," Jake lied. "I was hoping you would know. Any information on Darius that would indicate that they would resort to violence?"

Gary shrugged. He was dressed in his Sunday leisure outfit: loafers, faded jeans, white t-shirt and a button-up sweater. He looked like he had just walked off the set of "Leave It to Beaver."

"Your usual stuff. Typical corporate greed: mafia connections, price hikes, bribing state corporation commissioners, cooked books, and ten cent overcharge per customer every month on average. Of course those audits are third party and unpublished. Other than that, they have had three lay-offs in the last four years while the CEO, the board, and the executive officers have received pay increases and bonuses. Welcome to America, right?" Gary picked at his sweater absently and crossed his feet.

"So, then two other questions come up. Why does Sinegem want to buy them out so badly? And, why does Darius want to resort to violence to keep their business? What is so important?" Jake asked.

"Perhaps it is something with their R&D department. Darius has been granted half a billion dollars in federal funds to develop new fuel substitutes."

"Half a billion dollars?" Money was a foreign substance to Jake. When he needed it, he had it. He did not try to accumulate it and thought little of it other than to buy things. When words like billions came into play, it changed the perspective.

"Oh, did I not mention the government lobbyists?" Gary asked. He smirked.

Jake scoffed.

"Have they discovered something that Sinegem wants, maybe?"

"I don't know. It would be a good question to ask them," Gary responded.

"Which begs another question."

"You mean why are we meeting Darius personnel on Galbraith property if we are supposed to be in Russia?" Gary asked.

"Exactly."

Gary shook his head. His face was drained of color.

"Look, I don't feel comfortable thinking about what we are getting into. I need this job and all, but I like my life. I don't have some sick death wish like you do," Gary said.

"What do you mean?"

Gary tried to avoid his eyes. He got off the couch and crossed to the bar separating his living room from his kitchen. He had his back to Jake.

"You know. Lately, you seem to be taking more risks than when I first met you. It's not like you are losing your skills, it is like you are trying to find your limits. I don't know. Maybe I am just scared is all."

Jake was touched by Gary's compassion.

"Are you scared of getting fired?" Jake asked.

Gary smirked. He shrugged.

"Not really," Gary said. He took a drink from a large glass of orange liquid. Jake suspected it was a Mimosa.

"When did we become detectives, Jake? I thought our jobs were simple. I do all the tech stuff to make what you do possible and you do what you do. Simple. Bing, bam, thank you ma'am."

Jake turned and looked out onto Gary's terrace. His apartment wasn't as modern as Jake's but it had a certain charm and a great location. The furnishings were simple but expensive. For all his technical savvy and his youthful interests, it seemed Gary had an old soul.

"Maybe our jobs just became more complicated. It isn't our fault our boss is moonlighting our services to the enemy. We have to decide who we work for: Lars or Galbraith."

"Those are awful choices, Jake."

"That is the world in which we live, Gary. We need to stick together, though. Can I trust you to back me up?"

"Of course you can."

Jake wanted to trust Gary. His gut told him that it would never be possible. Gary had a second sense when it came to self-preservation. If push came to shove, he would betray Jake. Jake did not hold that against him, but at the same time, he knew to be cautious.

"Good. Then I propose we play along as far as we can. We go through the motions, take the assignment, do our jobs, and see how we can muck things up to get the best effect."

"See? That's exactly what I was talking about," Gary complained. He pointed to Jake with his glass. A little dribbled out onto the carpet. Gary was still a little tipsy from last night, Jake thought.

"If we take a risk now or refuse the job, then we tip our hand. The connection between Lars and Darius cannot be exposed yet. We don't have hard proof," said Jake.

"When has that ever been a requirement? There is no Supreme Court, no jury. It goes to the top, and heads roll, regardless. No one is immune, including the whistle-blower."

"Exactly. They are as likely to persecute the messenger as they are to heed the message. We're better off waiting for someone to get caught in public with their hand in the cookie jar."

Gary frowned.

"How are we supposed to do that?" Gary asked.

"We are in dangerous territory either way, but technically, Sinegem has not fired Galbraith yet. Maybe I can seduce Giselle into convincing Sinegem into firing Galbraith on grounds of breach of contract."

" _You_ seduce Giselle? Don't you mean the other way around? She is too much woman for even you."

Jake smiled at that. Gary was not wrong.

"I trust you had a good time after I left?"

"She talked about you all night. She wanted to know if you were really a killer for hire."

"She doesn't believe I could be?"

"Most people don't, Jake. That is why you are so good at it."

He had not thought of that before.

"Interesting," Jake replied.

Gary finished his drink and sat back on the couch. He looked defeated. Deflated. Desensitized.

"So, you think that we should go along with Lars' plans without questioning him. Don't you think he will find that suspicious?"

"We can make it sound as though we understand what his motivations are. Perhaps we should ask for a cut of his take."

"With what you make, he will just laugh at you. You have no room for greed."

"Unless I want to own Galbraith itself, right?"

Gary laughed.

"So, what's in it for the Director? Why is he taking these risks running an operation against a client right under Mr. Galbraith's nose?"

"It certainly isn't for money. Like you said, we are compensated well enough to extinguish all but the most avaricious. I understand that Lars has a son and that he is his contact within Darius. He must have a special bond with him," Jake surmised.

"A son? I did not know that. This changes things. Where did you get this information?"

"I have my sources. You never tell me where you get yours, so we're even," Jake said.

"Fine. What do you know?"

"I know he went to the University of Connecticut to study civil engineering. I know he was raised by his mother in upstate New York, know he was hired by Darius three years ago, and that is about it. I have tax returns, cell phone records, and Christmas card lists. Nothing points back to Lars. He supposedly hasn't seen the young man since he was five."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would he cover up his own son's existence?" Gary pondered.

Jake shrugged.

"We know the contact exists, we just don't know the form. It doesn't matter. The best idea for us is to protect the interests of our employer. In the process, we can save our own hides," Jake explained.

"So, you expose this to Galbraith who in turn blows the whistle as if they provided the information. That could work. The only thing is..."

"You don't trust the whole team," Jake interjected.

Gary looked at him, his face set.

"Violet has it out for you, man. You embarrassed her. That doesn't set well. As communications director and liaison to Lars, she is in a position to hack your plan to pieces."

"It's a chance we will have to take. Besides, Violet isn't the only one we have to worry about trusting."

"Sam?"

"No. Giselle."
Chapter 8

## The Alright Corral

As Jake strolled the hallways of the fiftieth floor, he imagined an old Western soundtrack playing. He dreamed for a moment that he was wearing chaps and spurs, boots and a six-shooter. He had long sideburns and a droopy mustache. He had not bathed in days and his sweaty Stetson was askew on his head, rakishly covering one eye.

He could not help feeling like this would be a showdown. Jake realized the irony of an assassin feeling that he was taking the moral high ground. Of course, to do so, he had to be deceptive and disingenuous. What were some creative lies in comparison to murder and corporate greed?

In his eyes, he was entering this meeting wearing the white, but somewhat sullied hat. The Darius brass would be wearing dark black Irish bowlers, three-piece suits with ascots, and monocles. Lars would be wearing a black cowboy hat and smoking one of his disgusting cigars.

His heart was calmer than he had expected. He normally was pretty cool, but this meeting unnerved him. He understood the power and the corruption that Galbraith represented. Mr. Galbraith was publicly a philanthropic and socially conscience billionaire. However, the Para Contra branch of the Galbraith Alliance had a mission statement of _bella omnium contra omnes_ , meaning, "war of all against all." This reflected Zeke Galbraith's philosophy in a nutshell. For such an international outfit, this was certainly a cowboy mentality. Of course, some of the best westerns ever were directed by Italians.

Jake did not mistake this philosophy for a carte blanche in regards to betraying allies or misusing corporate funds to pursue personal vendettas. This would especially be true of projects that were in direct conflict with current customers. His participation would be interpreted as complicity. He was gambling that this would work. Failure meant certain death. Cement shoes, a particularly Russian form of roulette, death by torture, or worse.

He tried to push to the back of his mind the burden that his life was not the only one on the line in this venture. Gary, Sam, and Violet could also find themselves in danger if this did not go as planned.

_Of course_ , he thought with chagrin, _there_ _wasn't really a plan, per se_.

Of Giselle, he could not even spend a moment thinking about her now. He did not want to allow a stray thought to tip his hand. He needed to be as engrossed in his performance as the compliant, ignorant, and eager to kill assassin as he could muster.

The double oak doors were already shut. He would have to knock. He suddenly noticed his palms were sweating. He could not go in like that. He stopped and waved his hands vigorously. He did not want to seem to have an itchy trigger finger.

Jake checked his piece tucked neatly inside his jacket under his left arm. He had picked up a new holster in the armory early this morning just after having his usual caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso. He felt a little fuzzy. He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. He breathed slowly, listening to his body. He tried to focus and be open at the same time.

He was getting nowhere standing in the hall shaking his hands and trying to find clarity before jumping off the precipice, so he grabbed the door knob with confidence and put a surprised smile on his face.

The wolves were calling and he needed to meet them with a smile and a handshake. The snakes were slithering and Jake needed to stoop lower than their bellies to leave this room alive.

"Mr. Monday," Lars said with false warmth. Jake could see the truth stuck between his teeth like some week-old beef. "We were just discussing your role in our new project. Come join us."

The sun glinted off the fourteen-foot council table in front of the bank of windows. The full glory of downtown New York rose in the distance up river. Jake was not afraid of heights, but this view to the north always made him a little dizzy. He imagined the bright sun made him squint, his eyes narrow like a drifter staring down his enemy. It made him want to spit tobacco on the carpet and deepen his scowl.

He took a plush leather chair and swiveled it around so he was not staring directly into the morning sun rising to the east. He did not bother shaking anyone's hands. He knew that was taboo here. This was not business. This was not about manners and the lies that surrounded small talk and the other sycophant behaviors regarded as etiquette in the corporate world.

This was about vengeance. No handshakes needed for dealing death. Only loaded pistols and blood running in the dust at high noon.

He nodded at the balding Xavier Darius as a sign of respect. He noted the long, serious faces of his brothers and his eldest son. No Calvin, evidently. Too small to show, or merely too dangerous?

Jake perused the countenances of the seven men seated across from him. He could not see all them clearly because of the glare. He believed three of the board were present. In addition, Xavier's son, Matthew sat next to him, a perma-scowl on his face.

He wanted desperately to be able to stow his normal tendency to crack a joke for a different set of company.

_No one here with a funny bone in their body_ , Jake thought.

He knew they would suspect that something was wrong if he did not succumb to his customary benign banter. He desperately wanted to push the Stetson down in front of his eyes, kick his boots up on the long table and take a nap. He fought the urge.

"Talking about me behind my back again, Lars? I knew I shouldn't have taken down those bugs in here last week," Jake said with a plastic smile on his face. He could almost hear it squeak against his teeth.

He saw Gary's grimace. Gary sat with his palms on his lap. Jake saw his leg working nervously under the table. It was a good thing that Gary always appeared nervous.

The general consensus at the table was a frown. Two thick men in dark suits stood in the corner, their eyes boring holes into him. Their muscles rippled beneath their ill-fitting, off-the-rack jackets. The bulges of their tell-tale Berrettas were so obvious, a third grader could tell they were packing.

In his mind, a high pitched, western whistling echoed. He fought the temptation to smile.

He wondered at these fellas. Why would Darius bring obvious mafia beef into a complex full of trained mercs, assassins, and highly-trained support personnel? It made no sense. They would be dead in seconds if Jake sneezed wrong.

Did the Darius Electric Cooperative owners feel safer with four hundred and eighty pounds of meat protecting their backsides? If their IQs were equal to their chest circumference, the bodyguards might feel a little daunted and overwhelmed with the audacity of their employers.

Jake was reminded of the national economy. It suffered from a similar misconception of expectation. Over promise, under deliver. Good choice.

Lars cleared his throat.

"We were just saying that the demands of this assignment are simple and straightforward. Nothing you can't handle. Once we agree to the timeline, we can get the other formalities out of the way and get started. Sound good?" Jake felt his eyebrows rise and his eyes bulge. _Sound good?_

His cheery manner was completely out of place. Was Lars scared? And, when was the last time the Director asked if something sounded good? He attempted to keep the surprised look from his face. This was all so dubious, his hairs were prickling at the base of his neck.

He was treading very deep water.

"Sounds fine, Director." He wanted to sound official. If this was "under the table," as he suspected, it would be best if he kept up appearances.

"Great. You received the dossier with the information you need. Is that correct?"

Jake had found a three-inch folder on his desk this morning. He had not even looked at its contents. He knew what it would contain. Excuses, lies, plans, uninteresting information, mission parameters, success and failure directives. It was a file with more specific details than the folder Lars had given him last week. Giselle was named, obviously, as the target.

"Absolutely. Just let me know when I can get started. I am anxious to do what I do best with my particular set of skills." He was trying to throw in as many cheesy movie lines as possible. He wanted to inspire greatness in the mafia suits. He was supposed to be some sort of hero here. He needed to fill the role. Cocky. Brash. Overeager. Capable. Professional. Jerk.

So far, so good. He did not want to celebrate too early, though. He had not received an offer. He trusted that the folder still on his desk held information regarding Ms. Chaput's itinerary, her residence, hotels booked, credit card information, cell phone number, email address, favorite perfume, and underwear size. Ideas for confrontation, infiltration, and elimination would be detailed. Proposals for extraction, transportation, and ammunition would be suggested.

"Mr. Monday, we know you are capable of carrying out the mission parameters. You do understand that the target is New Year's Eve?"

Jake was only mildly surprised. He did not show it.

"Of course. I am looking forward to celebrating the New Year in style." Now he was laying it on thick. He could see a smile creep across Xavier's face. He was delighting in the baseness of this.

Jake wondered if anyone in the room besides him had ever killed another human being. The mafia guys looked like pounders, not duelists. Perhaps they had bludgeoned someone to death, or sat on them until they suffocated.

There was no romance in it. Murder was not an aphrodisiac. Snuffing out another's life was merely a vivid reminder of one's own mortality. As a race, humans could be so soft, weak, and vulnerable. Men and women could die in a million different ways.

The only joy that could be extracted from slaying a fellow human was that somehow your life continued as theirs passed. Joy was not the word. Relief was a better approximation of the feeling as you stood over someone with four bullet holes in their head and chest and a three foot diameter pool of blood on the floor.

The group of "business men" were nodding with glints of approval in their eyes. Their morbid condoning of Jake's task made his stomach lurch. He did not regret doing his job. He just took no pleasure in it. Some did. It just felt wrong. It felt perverted. It was just a job to him. The more he did it, the better he became at it, and the more he had the feeling that what he did was terrible. Powerful, incredible, and awful.

"Then we have an agreement. Your assignment is set and the package is to be eliminated. A camera and laptop have been provided for you to make a visual confirmation," Lars said. It sounded hollow. He was just going through the motions. Lars was almost robotic in his delivery.

"We suggested using a head-cam, but your Director refused. He said that it will interfere with your ability to do your job. What do you think?"

Jake considered Matthew's question. Evidently, he had watched one too many spy movies.

"The problem isn't the glasses themselves. The resolution is bad, the live connection spotty, and the guise too obvious. The glasses tend to be too large, but that can be played off as a fashion faux pas. The only danger is that the risk of using them is too great to justify the poor production value. The Director is correct to suggest a post mortem visual confirmation."

That was probably his most professional monologue ever. He hoped he was convincing, because the glasses would be a great idea if they were going to do the assassination straight. As it was, wearing glasses would not allow him any room for negotiation with Giselle. Staging her death would be more problematic as well.

"I see," Matthew said, nodding at his father.

"Then I see no reason why we cannot shake on this agreement like businessmen."

Jake stood, delighted that this was going to go off without a hitch.

"I think the glasses are a good idea. I disagree with Mr. Monday and the director," Violet said, her voice shrill and demanding. He had almost taken her presence for granted. She was the only female at the table. She was so suffused in anger and self-pity, Jake had hardly registered her at all.

Jake saw the director swing his head around, his eyes wide in fury and disbelief.

_So much for that promotion,_ _Violet,_ Jake thought.

"Excuse me? Why is that, Ms...?"

"Sanger. Violet Sanger, communication specialist and mission liaison, Dr. Darius."

Jake was impressed. She had done her homework. _But what is her ploy?_ Jake wondered. He imagined she had just pulled a Dillinger from beneath her petticoats and was holding them all hostage with the single round in the chamber. Maybe he was wrong and it was really a Gatling gun.

"The problem with the typical glasses used in surveillance is that they are using tech from the nineties. We have a new model using Foster Grant and Chaps brand frames as well as couple of sports frames and wireless ones. The camera is embedded into the ocular lenses of the glasses rather than the frames and use a nano technology that includes Bluetooth connectivity and upload speeds of up to sixty Megs per second. This is faster than most Wi-Fi upload speeds because they do not use the same frequencies and therefore don't have to fight the bandwidth."

Xavier laughed.

"I suppose you can explain that to me in English, Matthew?"

Matthew stared at Violet, his mouth agape.

"Uh. Yeah. Sure," he said, stuttering. He looked at his father and then glanced at his uncles who stood watching him expectantly. Could Matthew be the mover and shaker here? Daddy certainly deferred to him enough."Basically, she is saying that the models of glasses they have available can provide us real-time views of Mr. Monday's work."

Xavier barely managed to conceal the pleased smile that came to his thin lips.

"I am looking forward to that. Keep me posted. You have our information, Lars," Xavier said in a lazy, half-bored voice.

The Director had a constipated look on his face. He looked like he would implode. Defcon 9, at least.

"Yes, sir."

Jake guessed that it rankled his boss to be addressed by his first name in front of his team. Pride was on sick leave today, evidently.

Xavier glided down the table and took Violet's hand in his. He lifted it to his lips. Violet, to her credit, did not blush. She just stared into his eyes meaningfully and nodded with a smile. Xavier lifted his chin and closed his eyes. He placed his hand on his brother, Brandon's, back and escorted him from the room, the sun reflecting from his prodigious bald spot.

Jake still stood by the chair. It seemed everyone had forgotten him. The dusty street began to clear. The sun shone on the lonely hero. _Nothing to see here, folks._

The Director had edged from his seat to the coffee table set against the windows. He opened a carafe and looked inside. Jake guessed that Lars had filled that one with Vodka.

Jake imagined his smoking revolvers were aimed at Violet's meddling head. He was not angry, but she had just put them all in jeopardy. He always enjoyed a challenge, but for what he was attempting, this could be suicide.

Gary was standing at the end of the room now, nervously watching the mafia suits file out of the room behind the Darius brothers. He glanced at Jake, a look of desperation and doom.

Jake shrugged and smiled.

Only Matthew remained, chatting quietly with Violet. Jake was amazed as he watched Violet write down a number on a slip of paper and he took it, a sparkle in his eye.

_Wonders never cease_ , Jake thought wryly.
Chapter 9

## A Girl's Best Friend

Camilla Cross knew his type. He sat with his back against the window, watching the other passengers with curiosity. He was coolly confident, eyes like a hunter, built like an athlete, with an aggressive intelligence and an inflated sense of self. She liked to take men like him down a peg.

It was a bonus when her assignment was to humiliate someone who deserved it, who could possibly build a little character from it.

From her briefing, this was a very delicate assignment. The Farm knew that international terrorist organizations were employing counter measures for what they had once coined "CHATTER." A combination of drugs and other mind bending techniques were employed to create loyalty, suppress memory, and to heighten aggression, mental and physical acuity. Instead of uncovering truth by breaking down barriers, terrorists sought to create a new truth, to build up walls, and bend individual's talents to their own agenda.

She was looking at a puppet. The only question was, who was pulling the strings? The marionette in this case had to have deep pockets and a very secretive agenda.

Her target had been designated VMUNIT. As usual, the cryptonym meant nothing to her. It was probably generated by a computer, anyway. As a rookie, she had expected more creativity from The Company in regards to naming conventions for mission designations. She had soon been disabused of that notion.

Her task was to plant seeds that would counter this puppet's programming. A team of psychiatrists and doctors specializing in these procedures had developed two techniques that they were confident would act as a Trojan worm for his programming. One was tactile. One was focused on a previous program plant and was auditory.

She held the locket in her hand. She glanced at it, turning it over. It had no inscriptions. It was a simple silver locket with a thin silver chain. Camilla shrugged. The idea was to hand VMUNIT the locket and then repeat the key word three times.

Although this seemed simple enough, she understood the danger she faced. She also knew the stakes.

The plane had reached altitude and she swallowed hard to pop her ears. She hated flying. This was the most controlled environment for this particular encounter, so the journey was necessary.

Agent Cross got up from her seat, glancing ahead to the air marshal she had identified earlier. He saw her and nodded. He got up and went to first class. Camilla put on her best smile and smoothed her business suit. She was off wire, no cameras. She was taking a big risk, but VMUNIT would be able to smell her coming a mile away if she were hooked up like an agent.

She made her way back, avoiding the feet in the aisle until she reached the big guy in 12b. She tripped headlong, giving up her body for the fall. As she fell, she could see her target already reacting. With the quickness of predator, he saved her. He had her by the shoulders, his hands strong but gentle. His eyes were a deep blue. An ocean to bask in if she were tempted.

"Whoa there, lady. You alright?" He seemed genuinely concerned.

Camilla was breathless. The ploy was working. It was so simple she had hardly believed it would succeed.

She gathered herself, shaking her head.

"I mean, yes. Yes. I am fine. Thank you." She tried to stand, and found that she had truly wrenched an ankle. "Ow." She did not have to act. The pain was immediate and bright.

"Let me take a look at that."

He lowered her into the empty seat opposite of him. She fought embarrassment. She almost forgot her mission as she bit her lip from the pain and from the sensation of her target's gentle hands carefully grasping her lower leg.

"Looks like you sprained it. It is gonna swell." He stared at her a second. Camilla's leg was extended into the aisle, her target crouching there with his back to the seat behind him. His eyes were so focused, so deep, yet revealed nothing.

"Can I help?" The stewardess interrupted.

"Yes. Ice please. In a plastic bag if you have it."

"We have ice wraps."

"Excellent. I will need some pillows, too. I need to prop her leg and her head."

Wordlessly, she turned and walked carefully back toward the forward bulkhead.

"Are you a doctor?" asked a small boy in the seat in front of them. His round face was smudged with jelly and he had a Star Wars action toy.

VMUNIT smiled at him.

"You can say that. I know my way around the human body, certainly."

"You don't look like a doctor." He commented.

VMUNIT nodded and then shared a smile with her.

"You're in good hands, Miss. Don't worry."

"Thank you for your kindness."

"Call me Jake. What's your name?"

Camilla swallowed. She did not expect him to engage her this much. It was totally against mission protocols. But she was here now. There was no room for retreat. She was vulnerable. She hated that feeling, but suddenly it felt right to her. She gave into the sensation and then made yet another mistake. She told the truth.

"My name is Camilla."

"That is a beautiful name. What do you do, Camilla?"

"I work for an international agency."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Me too. Well, we will get you walking straight before we hit the ground. You based out of Los Angeles usually?"

"Uh. No. I hate white Christmas. I would rather be at a beach."

"The Pacific is pretty cold in the winter. Hawaii would be nicer."

"I agree." An awkward silence prevailed until the stewardess returned.

She handed Camilla some pillows, a knowing look in her eye. Camilla returned her smug attitude with a disarming smile.

"Thank you, Mary. You're a big help," Jake told the stewardess as he pressed the cold compress on her ankle and lower leg.

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows.

"That cold?"

"Not as cold as the Pacific in winter."

He chuckled softly.

"You have nice feet, Camilla."

She was embarrassed again. She had not blushed since high school.

Gathering her nerve, she scooted back so her back was against the outside wall of the plane and her foot was no longer in the aisle.

Their little friend was still watching, sucking his thumb, his eyes bright.

She was aware that several people were watching them.

"It was so nice of you to provide some in-flight entertainment, Camilla." Jake quipped.

She wished that he would quit using her name. She had been foolish to make that slip. Had she said her last name, too? She tried to smile through the panic.

"I was going to do some karaoke, but the pilot said he would need the speakers for announcements."

Jake finished wrapping her ankle and put some pillows under the heel of her foot. The pain subsided some but the embarrassment and sense of failure remained.

She was running out of time and here she was getting emotionally wrapped up with her target. Wasn't he the one that was supposed to get humiliated?

She leaned forward and took his hand, her eyes searching his.

"Thank you again. You didn't need to do all this. You are so kind."

He shrugged.

"I'm a sucker for a damsel in distress."

She smiled and grabbed his wrist. He looked at her, puzzled.

Camilla turned his palm over and placed the chain in his hand, folding his fingers over the locket.

"Vanity. Vanity. Vanity," she breathed. She said the word with force, their eyes connected. His look of confusion turned to concern. She watched for a reaction. His eyes remained flat, but his brow scrunched.

"Are you alright, Camilla?"

She nodded.

"Yes. Please take this as a gift for your kindness."

He smirked. He let the locket fall out of the palm of his hand and caught the silver chain. The locket spun in the air.

"Pretty. Thank you. But, this looks like an heirloom. I cannot take this, I was just playing doctor with a pretty girl. That is a reward of itself."

She fought the urge to blush again.

"It is yours. Please take it," she said firmly.

He nodded.

"I will remember you by it, then, Camilla." He patted her knee and rose to return to his seat.

Camilla bit her lip. She was not sure what she had expected. She had almost failed her assignment. Now she was unsure she had accomplished anything at all. She watched him gather into his seat, the locket spinning from his hand as he put the magazine back in the pouch in front of him.

"Your ankle looks like a balloon," her young friend noted. He had given up sucking on his thumb.

Camilla looked down. He was right. She could see a blue tint beginning to show near her arch. She knew she would not be wearing a shoe when she exited the plane.

She glanced back at VMUNIT—it was difficult to continue to think of him as a target anymore, but she tried. He was holding the locket up to the light from the plane's window, the sun glinting off of the silver as it spun. His eyes seemed distant and his face serious. Camilla hoped it worked. It made her sad to realize that she may never know.
Chapter 10

## A Time to Throw Away Stones

The traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard was mild. It was a relief to get away from the airport. The holiday crowd was brisk.

Jake drove the Maserati Convertible Sport with the top up. The California winter wind was uncharacteristically brisk. This disappointed him; he had looked forward to driving with the top down around Beverly Hills and through Hollywood before flying back to the frozen northeast.

Jake was pleased to listen to the deep bass baffle of the sport car, though. The low rumble was soothing and therapeutic—very male, and satisfying to his ego. Jake downshifted and whipped the convertible into an underground parking garage near the Los Angeles Country Club. He placed his aviator glasses in his front pocket as he steered into a guest parking slot.

He removed the leather driving gloves and placed them in a small satchel on the passenger seat.

Galbraith had no qualms providing him with the perks of a six-figure vehicle, an expensive suite at the Four Seasons of Beverly Hills, and a wardrobe purchased from the priciest shops on Sunset Strip.

He felt ready. Something about the velvet and gold trappings of this profession prepared him for the grittiness of the act he committed. Murder was such a mess. However, in an Alexandre Plokhov blazer, Armani high-waist slacks, and Damir Doma derbies, he felt as though it added a class, a purity, to the untidiness that came with taking another's life.

He exited the vehicle, not bothering with the alarm system. He had his satchel. It was all he would need. No prints on the car. He would just leave it here. _Such a waste_ , he thought. There was some sense of freedom in the act of leaving behind expensive breadcrumbs.

Jake extracted the disposable cell phone he had purchased with a pre-paid credit card in the airport. He dialed Gary's number.

"Hello, pal."

"You there?"

"Yes. I parked next door, underground."

"I have the feed for your glasses on tap here."

"And Galbraith Central won't know you are tapped in?"

"It isn't that type of frequency. Anyone with a Bluetooth cell phone or laptop could pick up your feed if they knew the password."

Jake kept walking, noting a couple ahead of him getting out of their SUV.

"Isn't that a security risk?"

"Yeah. A big one. Unlikely, but a risk all the same. Violet is a fool."

"Let's hope that is true. Just remember I will hit the button in mid-sentence so it seems legitimate. I will go live once I get in the building. I will approach the elevator and then be talking as the elevator closes. You have the elevator controls, too, right?"

"Got it yesterday. Stay frosty."

"Stop it. Out." He switched off and pocketed the phone. He would need to dispose of it later. He got out the glasses and put them on.

He wondered blithely if maybe they were engineered by Apple. The pair he was given had only one button. It was discreetly hidden on the inside of the dark frame and was concave. He waited while the tiny processor went through its initiation programming.

The elevators opened and he watched from inside its light at the couple making their way towards the elevators. He was older, his hair peppered grey and she was likely the same age but looked a decade younger. They were dressed in Beverly Hills chic and holding hands.

Jake held the doors for them. Something about them seemed familiar. He could not place it.

"Thank you," the blonde offered, her smile genuine.

"No problem."

The man smiled at him. They were strangers, but why did he feel like this scene was so familiar? He felt a brief flash of pain and a sense of dizziness. A thought came unbidden to his mind: VANITY. It was as if the word was written in red stencil across his eyesight. Jake blinked away the image and almost took off the glasses. He had learned long ago to ignore such oddities. If he pursued them, an enormous migraine followed. It was easier and less dangerous to just ignore them and keep focused on the task at hand.

He heard the buzzing that signaled that the audio was connected. A blue flash arced across his vision as the video technology and HUD came online.

"What floor?" The man was almost as tall as him, his shoulders broad. His blazer was long and stylish. His hair was cut close on the sides. Jake guessed that he was ex-military.

"Ground, please," Jake responded. "Thanks."

The man punched the buttons for "Ground" and for "Parking Level Three" with thick, calloused fingers.

_Those are not hands of a businessman,_ Jake noted. He glanced again at the woman who clutched a small purse to her abdomen and stared ahead. He could tell she had caught his glance.

Who were these people?

He could hear the team in New York confirming video and audio connections. He was told to look right and then left, up then down. Nod his head. Cough. Again. He felt like he was submitting to a physical. Turn your head. Bend over. Uncomfortable stuff. Especially with Mr. and Mrs. Beverly Hills standing awkwardly next to him.

It was a good test of whether the audio and the HUD were detectable, though. Someone made some adjustments and the HUD became fainter, its yellow lines and scrolling information bar fading enough for it to not make his eyes water.

The elevator ride ended. Without a word or a backward glance, Jake stepped out into the breezeway between the Century Plaza and the parking garage. He heard the doors close. He looked up and confirmed security cameras. Red lights were off. He smiled. Holidays were the easiest time to pull off assignments like this. Lower staff levels, less witnesses. Which made him think of Mr. and Mrs. Beverly Hills.

Were they his back up? A counter assassination team? An internal investigation team? Or did they work for Sinegem? Regardless, he saw no one else and they were gone now. Besides, he needed to check in.

"Monday requesting audio confirmation. Vector New Year 7114E." _Who made up this stuff, anyway?_

"Confirmed. Base clear. Audio and visual confirmation, Vector New Year," Violet's voice always sounded like a robot over transmission. Jake smirked. Ironically, he would rather be talking to Lars. Maybe he had been bumped by the Darius Group.

Galbraith Alliance normal protocol was being supplanted, but that was what he expected for a rogue operation. He wondered how much of the operational expenses and personnel, digital and financial cookie crumbs of this foolishness was being reported higher up the chain. He pushed it to the back of his mind for now. Nothing could stay a secret forever.

"A/V confirmed, check. Entering in 5, 4, 3...." Jake walked briskly to the elevator, ignoring the security cameras. They were on a loop, anyway. He glanced right and left as he entered the building. "No lookers."

"No witnesses. Confirmed. Heat signatures show negative activity on first three floors. Happy New Year."

Violet was not usually jovial during assignments. Jake took it for what it was worth. She was showing off for the Darius Group. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. Too dangerous. Maybe it would show up on his heat signature.

"You too. Elevator operational," Jake said as the door opened. He stared straight ahead as he walked into the elevator and turned, focusing his vision on his right hand entering the building code to the fourteenth floor. With his left hand he extracted a small plastic device with three buttons. He held it behind his back.

"Confirmation. Elevator uninterrupted to target floor. Security code eng-"As soon as the doors closed, he pushed the red button on the device in his hand. His glasses made a sharp whine and the audio from the other end cut out.

"Hello? Monday to Vector New Year. Hello?" Satisfied, he removed the glasses and placed them in his pocket for now, remembering at the last moment to hit the button to disconnect. He knew that he was safe from here on out unless the team chose to turn on the security cameras. He was relying on Gary to keep that from happening.

The loop that was running on the cameras now was internal. That meant that the programming was done locally. However, some of the technical folks could figure out that they could remotely override the internal loop. He only had five minutes. His only other worry was the infernal heat signatures.

As he rode the elevator, he extracted the wet suit and the ice packs.

The door opened. Jake turned right and saw the Vector Energy suite ahead of him. This was one of Sinegem's first American acquisitions when it went public. He entered through the glass door. He was surprised to see it was already open. Giselle was in one of the glass offices speaking to someone on video conference. She was shaking her head. She seemed nervous or upset.

Jake knocked on the glass. She turned, startled. She turned back to the screen, flustered and he watched her make a hurried excuse and then turned her screen to the side so he could not see.

What is she trying to hide from me?

She got up, and came around to the door. She had locked it.

"What are you doing here?" She asked, incredulously. She stared at the wet suit he held in his hand.

"I wanted to invite you to go parasailing with me. I thought we could head on down to Santa Monica and get wet," Jake managed, smiling.

"You are crazy," she replied. Her eyes were wide with fear. Her nostrils flared. "You are here to kill me! Aren't you?"

"No," he said calmly. He held out the wet suit to her. "Put this on. I will get you out of here. We need to work some things out where it is safe."

"Safe? Where do you think in this whole wide world I am safe? My security attachment has been pulled. I know what this is about, Mr. Monday."

It hurt him a little that she used his family name.

"You are right. You are not safe. Darius wants to make you an example. Sinegem seems to not care. I assume this has something to do with your failure to recruit me. Is that right?"

She shook her head. She was crying now. Jake hated it when women cried. It made him feel so vulnerable. So responsible. So guilty.

"It is much bigger than that. You don't know. I have—"

"We don't have time now, Giselle. Quick. Put this on. I will turn my back." She took the suit from him, the material slipping from his fingers. He turned his back and then pulled a pistol from his bag. He fired one shot into a cubicle nearby. The silencer muffled the majority of the sound, but he could hear Giselle shriek.

He did not turn around.

"I have to make it appear as though I did my job."

"I don't understand why I have to put on this thing," she complained. She was sobbing.

"They have thermal cameras set up in the building east of us. I need them to think you died."

"I died? So you _are_ here to kill me!"

_It is difficult to be consoling when you have your back turned_ , he thought.

"I'm not, though. Just put it on and bring your clothes."

"What will happen when they discover I am not dead?"

"Let me worry about that. Here, put on these ice packs." He handed the packs to her. They were shaped as rings to fit over wrists, legs and around necks.

Giselle looked at him quizzically.

"Where?"

Jake tried to remain patient. Time was slipping by. Every second was important. He tried to ignore the watch on his arm. He took a deep breath.

"Around your wrists, over your neck. It will keep your body temperature down for a little while. In that gear, your body will heat up quickly." He tried to ignore the shape of her body in the tight-fitting rubber. She slipped the ice packs on, mumbling.

"Alright. Let's go," Jake said, turning toward the door.

"Wait!" He looked back and she was staring at him, her eyes wild. He understood that she had questions. This was sudden, this was life-shattering, and this was awful. He had no time for questions, feet dragging, or hesitation. They needed to move.

"Yes?" he said, trying to keep the ice from his smile.

"I can't go out like this. I look ridiculous!" She was shaking her head. She did look odd. Odd, beautiful, sensuous, and frightened. Jake was a sucker for a damsel in distress.

"Put on a coat. It's cold outside."

"Won't that counteract the suit? I mean—"

He put his hand to her mouth. He looked into her eyes.

"You can't have it both ways. We don't have time for this. Put the coat on and we will hope that it will lock in the cold. The coat doesn't show up on the cameras." She nodded, his hand still on her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. "The longer we stay here, the easier it will be for them to see that you are still here. There is no one on the first three floors, so I need to be the only heat signature they see. Okay? Once we get to the garage, though, we are in the clear. They have no heat cameras there."

Giselle swallowed and nodded. He removed his hand and she walked over to the closet and pulled out a long trench coat. It was a man's coat. Jake could not help but to wonder whose it was.

"Alright, I am ready," she said, picking up her silver heels. She left her underclothes across the desk. He regretted not having time to set up a scene. This would have to do.

"Are you the only one working today?"

"Yes," she said. She hesitated, her gaze going to the terminal in the office. "I came only to communicate with my superiors at Sinegem. They aren't helping."

"I know. Something is wrong. We will get to the bottom of it. Come on."

He held the door open for her. Giselle tucked her chin to her chest and batted her eyes at him. The ice pack forming around her neck showed beneath the collar of the trench coat. She looked like a proper spy come out from the cold, carrying silver pumps and prepared to seduce. He imagined she was very good at her job.

As they walked the carpeted hall, he heard the elevator moving. The doors swished open and the couple he had met earlier emerged, pistols in hand. They both had little Bluetooth mics in their ears. Time slowed for Jake and he saw details. This is what made him special.

The man was big, but favored his right leg. His knee was weak. The woman turned her head to the left, tilted down but the mic was in her right ear. She had an equilibrium problem. Jake guessed that she had flown in recently and had not recovered from the pressurization.

Both pistols were B&T TP-9 semi-auto nine millimeter machine pistols. They were handy because stripped down, they were easier to disguise since many of their exterior parts and magazine were polymer. Springs, guide rods, and ammunition could be hidden in separate compartments, or picked up at the destination. They were also common weapons, although more expensive than perhaps a fully automatic Glock. Jake noted that they had the barrel extensions attached to hide flash and suppress sound. These extensions added about three grams of weight to the front of the barrel. In addition, he noted they did not have an attached stock or a sling system to give them a more stable platform to assist with quicker follow up shots.

With this knowledge, Jake went into motion. He noted in his peripheral vision that Giselle had dropped her shoes. He was not sure how much he could depend upon her to assist, but he was prepared to end this threat quickly. He and Giselle were still racing against the clock. These two did not seem to be pros. He wondered again who sent them. Hired mercs was his best guess. Security personnel, maybe.

"Stop right there!" The man shouted. He aimed his pistol with both hands.

Jake held up his hands as he stepped forward again. The man began to lower his weapon and the woman fanned out to his left, closer to the wall, her pistol trained on him. They were ignoring Giselle. He turned his head and Giselle was there holding a gun to his head.

"Oh. I see. A trap."

"No. I didn't know who would show up. I hired these two to protect me."

Jake raised his eyebrows.

"I'm impressed. So, why did you go along with me?"

She shrugged.

"To buy time. To see what your intentions were."

"Darius won't stop here, Giselle." His hands were still above his head. He wanted to bolt ahead and take them out. In his head, he was forming his cover. Blown assignment. Security personnel, communications scrambled, and bad decisions. Darius would be furious. He wouldn't lose his job, but his reputation would suffer. He had never failed an assignment. This one would never show in the books, but people would talk. Surviving never entered his mind. He knew what he had to do.

"Actually, you are in more hot water than I am. You should never have accepted this assignment. I tried to warn you when I met you in New York, Mr. Monday."

Mr. and Mrs. Beverly Hills took their places in the hall in front of him, barring his escape. He ignored their menacing stares.

He looked at her with sad eyes.

"I thought we were on a first name basis."

She smiled and shrugged.

"That was personal. This is business."

Jake nodded.

Then he vaulted forward in a quick roll. He came up in front of Mr. Beverly Hills. To his credit, he had followed Jake's movement and fired just over his shoulder as he ducked. Jake knew the next shot would be high. He smashed his foot into the man's right knee, feeling his leg give. He watched as the man collapsed. Jake grabbed his TP-9 and twisted it from his grip and quickly cracked his skull as he fell limp the floor.

Jake heard the report of Giselle's pistol behind him. He trusted that she was firing to warn, not to kill. He pivoted away as Mrs. Beverly Hills shouted something. As he turned he brought his open palm around in a wide arc, smacking her in the left hear. At the same time, he stepped close into her, his leg between hers and he brought his foot down hard on the stiletto of her right foot. It broke with a snap. Jake felt a bullet rip through the fabric of his jacket. It missed his side by maybe an inch, he saw as he looked down. Mrs. Beverly Hills collapsed with a grunt. Jake imagined that she had twisted her ankle pretty hard and that her ears were ringing quite badly. He pushed her shoulder on the right side and watched as she dove backwards and smashed into the wall behind her.

She dropped her pistol and Jake kicked it, and rounded on Giselle. She stood behind him, her legs spread wide, the men's trench coat open, revealing her lithe figure in the tight scuba outfit. She was smiling smugly.

"I had heard you were good. I am impressed. How much would it be to secure your services, Monday?"

"I am not for sale, Giselle. Drop your weapon."

She shrugged and stuffed the pistol into a pocket of the coat. She held her empty hands in front of her.

"We can go now. I will go with you. I am interested to hear your side of this now."

"What changed your mind?"

"It doesn't seem I have a choice. Evidently, you are the only one capable of protecting me."

Jake looked at her sadly and then glanced at his watch.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Giselle."

"There is only one way to find out," she said, a sly smile lighting up her face.

Jake motioned with his head at the two mercenaries sprawled on the floor.

"How about these two? You could have called the dogs off."

"You will need an alibi, am I not right?"

_I can see now why Sinegem hired her,_ he thought. He said, "Then let's move. That suit isn't going to fool them for long."

Minutes later, Jake was peeling out of the parking garage and heading south on the Highway 2. A boat was waiting for them docked in Santa Monica, courtesy of Gary's rich friend, Seyla Harrington. They stopped long enough to check if Anthropologie or Fred Seagal was open on the holiday. To Giselle's disappointment, both were shuttered, despite signs declaring a sale. Jake assured her that Gary's friend would have an acceptable wardrobe at the yacht. Giselle was melancholy for the rest of the trip, but he suspected it had more to do with her brush with death than Seyla's taste in shoes and sensible sailing clothes.

The captain, crew, cabin, and wine suited Jake just fine. He was glad to be off shore and safe. He knew that could be a short-lived condition, so he began making calls. He started with Gary.
Chapter 11

## Wear My Sunglasses at Night

The Embraer Legacy 650 business jet landed at the private air strip and taxied to a stop. Giselle sat across from him in a soft leather recliner, sipping champagne. She had complained that she had missed celebrating the New Year. Two days had passed since their harried escape from the Vector Energy headquarters in Los Angeles. Jake had enjoyed the rest, the food, the fresh, warm salt air, and the view.

He glanced again at Giselle's alabaster skin, her slim legs crossed primly. He was glad he was about to hand her over to her employer's security team. The longer he spent with her, the more difficult he found defending against her advances. His body demanded yes, and his mind devoutly said no. He had no idea where that second voice got its self-righteous fury. Jake simply obeyed it the same way he would ignore the sharp, blinding pain that came with the thought of VANITY.

"I dare say I thought I was rid of this blasted cold," Giselle complained.

"I thought you were born in a frozen climate," he jabbed. She smirked and ignored him.

She glanced out the window as they taxied through the ice and snow. It covered the surrounding hills and Jake could hear the slush and ice crunching under the Legacy 650's landing gear. It was almost enough to depress him. He had to agree with Giselle. He would rather still be out on the Pacific.

"I wasn't sure they would take me back," she said, her voice quiet. She chewed on her lip and continued to stare out the passenger window.

"I am sure Sinegem believes the threat is behind them now. The board has voted to remove their sanctions, and re-assign you. Darius has agreed to call off the dogs. You get your life back."

She turned to look at him, sadness weighing down her porcelain features.

"What about you?"

He shrugged.

"I guess I tweaked the nose of my boss, gave Violet more reason to hate me, and owe Gary a country club membership. What kind of assassin would I be if I didn't manage to create a little chaos while rescuing someone for a change?"

Giselle sniffed.

"I think you are too confident. I am not retracting my offer, Mr. Monday."

"I thought we were on first name basis again since I saved your bacon."

Her smile was sad. Her voice sounded weary.

"As before, this is business, not pleasure. We need you more than Galbraith. Don't make us force them to use you."

"What do you mean?"

She sipped her champagne. The jet stopped abruptly and the attendant came forward and stood at the front of the cabin, smiling professionally.

"I have perhaps said too much. We must join our companions. We will speak more, I am sure." She placed the champagne on the table beside her and allowed Jake to take her hand and escort her forward.

"I am glad you are safe," he said. She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Jake could smell her skin. It was intoxicating.

"I will never be able to thank you for all you have done. I enjoyed our little adventure."

"Me too," he said. A dumb, thunder-struck smile edged its way across his face. She took both his hands in hers and gave them a little shake.

"Until later, Mr. Monday."

"Yes. We must have another adventure someday," he promised.

She turned and made her way toward the exit. Mixed emotions stirred in him again. Despite his compunction to follow her home and to hear more of this offer to work for Sinegem, Jake turned his mind to the business at hand.

Jake was curious about what she was hinting, but he had some small trepidation regarding his position at Galbraith. He did not figure that there would be a good exit strategy. This was not the first time it had occurred to him that he might not be able to leave Galbraith alive.

He wondered who would meet him on the icy tarmac outside. Lars had mentioned that he had passed some sort of "test." Jake was sick of feeling like he was a puppet. He had jumped through every hoop Lars and Galbraith had put before him. He did not understand why he constantly had to prove himself. Evidently, they were more worried about his loyalty than his skills. This made Jake uneasy. At least he had passed. That was always a good feeling. Right?

As he ducked his head and moved toward the politely smiling attendant, he tried to catch a glimpse outside the windows. All he could see was a long field featuring a huge rock and a brick mansion with tall cedars standing a lonely, snow-covered guard against a north wind coming off Lake Cayuga. They were in upstate New York at the vacation home of one of the Sinegem America executives. Probably another one of Gary's "friends." It never ceased to amaze Jake the sheer volume and quality of Gary's contacts. The small runway was newly paved and well maintained, but the snow was still falling in huge flakes like ashes from some great fire.

The cold wind whipped into the jet and the glare from the whiteness of the snow almost blinded him. He wished he had packed some winter gloves. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket as the attendant wrapped Giselle in a long, fur-lined parka. He barely heard her stammer her gratitude over the sound of the engines and the howl of the wind.

"Thank you for flying with us," the attendant said with more charm and enthusiasm than was necessary. Giselle smiled at her and carefully stepped down. Jake thought he should help her, but before he could get to the door, she was almost at the bottom.

Two men in trench coats, dark gloves, and mirrored sunglasses moved to flank her. One man took her by the elbow and the other by the hand, talking to her with a slight smile on his face. Giselle nodded. She turned and waved at Jake. He stood stupidly at the exit of the Legacy 650 with his satchel under his arm and his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.

The man beside her looked up at him then. Jake thought for one second that he recognized him. But the blinding whiteness of the snow and the cold air blowing on the surface of his eyes made him blink and squint.

Jake looked out farther from them to the dark Cadillac Escalade, another guard holding open the back passenger door and rubbing his hands together. A cloud plumed into the air from the exhaust. Jake could not make out anything in the vehicle due to the tinting, but he saw a pant leg through the open door. _Four guards?_ Maybe Sinegem was serious about protecting their asset better this time.

Another vehicle pulled into the driveway of the house. It was a dark green Yukon Denali with Virginia plates. Lars and Violet got out as soon as the vehicle came to a stop about twenty yards from the jet. Jake was surprised to see them there. _And where is Gary?_ he wondered.

Violet stood at the bottom of the steps, her arms crossed and a satisfied smile on her face. Her cheeks were beet red from the cold. Lars was shaking the hand of the man who had held Giselle's hand. He nodded, smiling and they parted.

_What is happening here?_ Jake fought the urge to panic.

The attendant was standing patiently behind him the whole time.

"Watch your step, sir. The snow is accumulating quickly," she said loudly to be heard above the roar of the engine.

He nodded and descended to his fate.

Violet stood back from him. Lars came up and extended a hand. His lips were a firm line across his face. His eyes gave nothing away.

Jake shook his hand, the leather gloves warm to the touch. Lars had driven, he realized.

"Welcome back, Jake. Good job."

"Thanks. I think." He cocked his head and looked again at Violet who shook her head and seemed to be chuckling.

"Come on. We have a long trip back to New York and a lot to talk about," Violet said, turning and trudging through the north wind back to the warm sanctum of the SUV.

"It would seem so," Jake said. "Like, where is Gary?"

Jake followed, adjusting the satchel in case he needed to get his gear.

"Gary is waiting in New York. We will fill you in as we travel," Violet said over her back into the wind.

Jake took in Lars with a curious stare. He walked abreast of Jake, his breath pluming in the wind and trailing behind his ear like a freight train.

"Don't worry, Jake. You are not in trouble," Lars said. His voice was gruff, like sandpaper on an antique.

"Thanks for not saying 'just trust us,'" Jake quipped.

"I don't expect you would anyway," Lars said without humor. He stared ahead, only glancing toward the Cadillac as Giselle was escorted in.

"You know them?" Jake asked.

Lars shrugged. He grabbed the door handle and opened the door, looking at Jake. He took a deep breath. His eyes were watery but hard. They were grey, Jake realized.

"My son Calvin works for them," he said.

Jake prepared himself to lie. The longer he did this, the easier it became. Not just to others. It was easy to lie to himself as well.

"I didn't know you had a son, Lars," Jake said, trying to sound gregarious.

"Yes you did," Lars said. He got into the SUV without another word.

Jake followed suit. He swallowed hard. He was not exactly scared, but he hated being caught in a lie. Lars was a hard man to work for, but he was not cruel. He was more clever and shrewd than he had a right to be. Jake supposed that was why he was a Galbraith Alliance Director and he was merely the trigger, the knife in the dark, the operator. So where did that leave Violet?

The inside of the vehicle was blessedly warm. The seats had warmers and he had the luxury of separate controls for the heat in the back seat. Violet sat in the front passenger seat. She reached around and handed him a laptop.

"Your passcode is your agent identification. I suggest changing the code immediately. This is a long trip. You can start there," she pointed at the laptop "and if you have any questions, we can get you up to speed."

Jake opened the laptop and typed in his passcode. Security protocols flashed and the obligatory hourglass turned and then he was looking at a set of files titled "Operation _Aždaja_."

Jake looked up. Violet was staring at him, a slim smile on her glistening lips. They were driving down a narrow two-lane road lined by farms, small, white houses, and stark metal-sided buildings. He glanced at the instrument panel and saw they were heading south, putting the wind and the snow to their backs.

" _Aždaja?_ What is that?" Jake asked, curious.

"A multi-headed ancient dragon of Russian lore. St. George slayed one in a famous painting," Violet answered. Her gaze was as smug as ever. Jake felt like she was challenging him even in this.

"I see. That is who we work for, isn't it?" He said, realizing the significance. His head was beginning to hurt.

Violet smirked.

"You know nothing, Monday," she said, turning back to face the windshield.

"The dragon is you," Lars said, his voice a low grumble, barely distinguishable from the sound of the icy gravel under the tires of the big SUV.

Confused, Jake looked down at the screen again and opened up the file. It contained several other folders and some media files. He double clicked on one and watched as the media player came to life.

It was a video of a trial.

Jake watched Eilif testify before a judge. There was no jury. Eilif's lawyer was pacing, asking questions Jake could barely hear. The sound was terrible, but the video was clear. Jake was about to exit the program and check out another file—he knew how this ended, so why watch it all?—when he recognized one of the people in the audience. It was Giselle. He paused the player and looked for the tool to zoom the camera.

It was her. She wore a brown suit jacket and her hair was tied in a tight knot atop her head. She looked scared. She looked pissed.

He realized he was being watched. He looked up at Violet in the front seat. She was smiling that familiar smug, self-satisfied smile.

"You know nothing, Monday," She said.

"Giselle works for Eilif?"

She shook her head.

"His daughter," she explained.

Jake could feel the headache come back. He saw the red capital letters burning into the back of his eyes. VANITY.

"And Calvin—"

"Really works for us," Violet finished. Lars was silent, but Jake watched as his jaw clenched and his fingers curled and flexed on the steering wheel.

Jake stared out the window at the lines of trees along the road. The bucolic setting around him was strange after spending the last few days surrounded by the choppy deep blue waters west of the Channel Islands. The wiper blades beat a rhythm, and emitted a high-pitched squeal. Jake lost himself in the noise and the movement of the vehicle. The pain in his temples and at the back of his head pushed cognitive and analytical thought from his brain.

"That whole thing was a setup?" He didn't know if he was angry or just scared.

He watched Violet open a small black case in the front seat.

"Think of it as more of a test," she said.

"A test? Of what? My abilities? You called it a test before. What are you testing? Who are you, really? Answer me, Lars." Jake put his hand on his shoulder. Lars didn't flinch.

Violet shook her head. She lunged, a syringe in her hand. Before he could pull his exposed hand back, she had plunged the needle in between his thumb and finger at a shallow angle. He felt a warm sensation there as she pressed the plunger. He yanked his hand, staring at her with wild eyes.

"Not your abilities, Monday. A test of your programming," Lars said.

"I don't understand," he said. He watched as Violet put the syringe in a packet and put it back in her purse. She turned back to the front, with a glimpse at Lars.

"Keep going through the files on the laptop, Monday. Go in order this time. It will all fit together soon," Lars instructed. Jake ignored him.

"Why did you do that?" Jake asked Violet. She did not look at him.

" _Aždaja. Aždaja. Aždaja,_ " Violet said. Her voice was firm. She said the words slowly. Then, she turned and held out her fist to him, palm down.

He looked at her quizzically, nursing the sting of his hand.

"Take it," she ordered.

He held out his hand and she dropped a heavy coin in it. It was silver with deep etchings. It looked ancient. One side held old Slavic writings. He turned it over in his hand, lazily. On the opposite side was an engraving of a dragon, awful and terrible with three heads. He looked up at Violet gazing at him as if she expected something.

The world around him narrowed to the interior of the vehicle, the heat blowing on his face from the vent above his head, the glow of the laptop as the daylight outside waned, and Violet's eyes. They seemed black, her face like a harpy or a medusa.

Lars was right. It was a long trip.
Chapter 12

## Quantum of Malice

"Do you think they told him?" Giselle asked, the slim cigarette held delicately between her fingers.

"I suppose they must," Clarence said.

"I presume he will hate me now," she complained.

"He will not remember." Clarence sat facing her. He held a slender leather briefcase on his lap. It had gold clasps.

"How long is our drive?"

"An hour. We will fly from Syracuse."

Giselle stared out the window glumly.

"I do so much hate snow."

Clarence remained silent. He was so polite. So professional. She hated him, too. She watched him through slitted eyes and white-grey smoke. She shook the ashes of her cigarette onto the floor of the SUV. The guards in front and back could not hear them through the glass that separated the compartments. Bullet-proof and soundproof on all sides. She felt like she was sentenced to prison.

"Will my father require me to quit my position at Sinegem?"

Clarence clucked his tongue, cleared his throat and then sighed heavily. He did not enjoy being questioned. _Or perhaps he hates me as much as I hate him,_ she thought. She had tried on occasion to flirt with him, show him some leg, some cleavage, and breathe on him huskily. He was iron, cold and distant. Or gay. Or a eunuch. She had literally no power over him other than the fact that her father paid him handsomely for his services.

"Your father will undoubtedly want you to remain. I did not speak to him about this. You should pose this concern to him yourself. I am merely here to retrieve you."

She arched her eyebrows.

"I see. You are a golden retriever and I am a bone. Is that it?"

He ignored her while staring directly at her. He had a talent for that. _He reminds me of my brother, Geirmund,_ Giselle thought wistfully _._

"Did Mr. Monday accept your offer?" He asked instead. His decidedly British face and voice betrayed no emotion. It was as if he had an overdose of Botox treatments and a robot voice box.

Giselle squirmed in the heated leather seat. She still wore the trench coat she had been given aboard the jet. She liked the way the wool scratched at her wrists. It reminded her of the way the nicotine felt as it entered her lungs.

"No. But it does not matter. Sinegem will hire Galbraith Alliance to perform this. And they will use Mr. Monday for this assignment. I will see to it. The farce to which I was subjected was performed for just such a reason as this."

Clarence smirked and then nodded.

"I bow to your wisdom and foresight, Ms. Giselle."

He was mocking her. She felt her anger rise in her throat.

"I did not spend three days at sea bundled up in a wool sweater and rubber boots to have you mock my plans, Clarence," she said as she emphasized her point by stabbing the cigarette at him.

He blinked and raised his eyebrows.

"Actually, your plans are sound. However, Mr. Nicholaisen will not be pleased to hear that the man who was so instrumental to his incarceration is not closer at hand."

She tried to temper her fear and her hatred long enough to get an answer to a question that had bothered her for weeks.

"Have we discovered who hired Galbraith Alliance to embarrass my father?"

Clarence looked quite pleased that she had asked that question. He smiled and splayed his fingers out across the dark leather of the briefcase on his lap. She did not know what to think. She had never seen him smile before. His small, square teeth and short pink tongue were exposed when he did, which might explain why he refrained.

"Why, Ms. Giselle, it was your esteemed employer, Sinegem."

She furrowed her brow and extinguished the cigarette on the seat beside her. She could smell the burnt leather.

"What? How? Why? Father is on the board of six of their acquisitions."

"Many questions. Good ones, all of them," Clarence said, tugging his right shirt sleeve out past his jacket sleeve. "It seems you are missing the best question of all. Who? We know the what: three murders were performed in his house and staged to appear that Mr. Nicholaisen was to blame. We know the how: someone hired the most expensive and sophisticated terrorist and assassination group in the world to murder two of his guards and to plant a body and a weapon to appear as though Eilif was the murderer. Of course, in the course of the investigation, many of Eilif's white collar crimes came to light and therefore his sentence was an open and shut case. We even know the why."

She had never heard him talk so much since she had known him. Stunned, she had allowed him to continue. He tugged on his other sleeve. Clarence was quite fastidious. She suspected that he even oiled and waxed his bald pate.

"Why, then?" She asked impatiently.

"Mr. Nicholaisen has been buying more shares of stock than some of the other stock holders are comfortable. Of course, Eilif could not accomplish this without using other revenue streams. Revenue that comes from some of his more, shall we say, _illicit_ profit centers. We simply have some who have become weary of Eilif's propensity for gain."

She chuckled.

"They should have embarrassed you and sent you to jail, then. You are the master of Eilif's coin."

Clarence nodded. His smile was thin, hiding his Chiclet teeth. He was quite proud of his prowess for increasing her father's fortunes.

"This is true, actually. I regret that very few are aware of my role in this. But, that is not the point. We knew all the answers but the who. Until yesterday."

"Good. I can kill him, then," Giselle said. The venom in her voice was genuine.

"Them," Clarence corrected.

"More than one? Who?"

"It seems that Eilif has angered someone who has a large following. Someone who has much more power than he deserves."

"You are speaking in riddles, Clarence."

"Some would say that Eilif's enemy would be untouchable."

"I thought you said there was more than one."

Clarence stopped smiling and turned the briefcase around. The clasps snapped open. He turned the briefcase around. A single folder sat inside. She took it, impatient and irritated at Clarence's attempts to be an enigma.

She opened it and rifled through its contents. She saw numbers, and columns, names and corporations. Without studying them closely, she saw nothing that connected these with the who. Confused, she looked at Clarence and shrugged.

"What am I seeing here, Clarence? Stop being diffident."

Clarence cleared his throat again. He was always clearing his throat or sighing. Giselle was sick of his pompous nature.

"Clearly, the files you are glancing at are the companies and individuals who have invested in our enemy."

"Our enemy?'

"Your father's enemy. His comrade, fellow investor at Sinegem and hundreds of Sinegem's investitures, and his great nemesis, the mysterious client of Galbraith Alliance."

"So, these individuals, these companies invested in this enemy? So this is where you get the 'them' comment."

"Yes. Just."

"How are these people to blame?"

"Why, they supported his campaign."

"Campaign for what?"

Clarence smiled and slid a photo across to her. In it, a man in a suit stood atop a podium, jubilantly raising his hand, a woman in a sensible dress and three children stood behind him, smiling. Red and blue confetti littered the air around him. His face was very familiar.

Of course it was.

Her stomach lurched. _This is too big. Even for father_ , Giselle thought.

"I know what you are thinking. But, perhaps your plan for Galbraith and Mr. Monday contain more wisdom than you think. Don't despair, Ms. Giselle. Tears and blood will flow soon. Debts will be paid in spades. Mr. Nicholaisen is a vengeful man and I am a dutiful servant. And you, my dear, are a talented daughter that can make all this work."

She swallowed and looked again at the photo. Clarence was trying to inspire her, but she only felt dread.

"I am going to need some more champagne, I think."

Clarence smiled and checked the nails of his fingers.

"Besides, Giselle, I happen to know someone who wants this man dead more than your father does. Perhaps I can speak to him and get his input and influence."

Giselle stared at him. Clarence would be a very dangerous enemy, she realized. She brought a smile to her face and raised her empty champagne glass in a silent toast.
Chapter 13

## Back in the Saddle Again

Jake was glad the winter was behind him.

The last few months had been a whirlwind of activity. He could barely remember the assignments, the locales, the faces of the men who deserved the justice he provided.

_Justice. What a funny word to call murder_ , he thought. He reasoned that his conscience would spit the word "murder" out like bad sushi, or choke on it like a foreign object lodged in his throat. In order to better swallow the reality that was his profession, Jake had created the fantasy that he was secretly protecting something dear to his heart. The truth was, he felt like his heart was as empty as a politician's promise. What compelled him to cling to the moral high ground? What impelled him to continue to come to work every day?

He pondered these weighty things while standing in line awaiting his daily joe. He stared at the menu board, wondering if he should deviate from his normal fare. He was proud of his ability to be unpredictable, but he seemed to have one habit of bespoken familiarity. He ordered the same thing every weekday. It just seemed to fit.

Once he had his caramel macchiato and strawberry cream cheese Danish in hand, he made his way to the elevator queue. Members of his old team were already there.

"So, I told her that next time, she would have to do better than just the two tickets to the Brooklyn Nets," Gary was saying. Violet stood next to him, pretending to be interested. Gary was really just showing off for the new girl. She stood, smirking and sipping her coffee.

Violet glanced at him. He could see the hatred in her eyes. He had not seen her in over three weeks. With the sudden change of venue, Jake had almost forgotten her. He wished that he could erase the feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The images that ran through his mind were a dragon, a fiery-headed Gorgon, and an alien with deep black pupils. He fought the urge to turn back to the lobby. Instead, he gave the obligatory lifting of the chin and a slight smile.

_Nothing untoward has happened between us. You do not intimidate me._ These were the messages he hoped he was sending. _I bested you_ , he tried to say with his eyes. Of course, she would take it as a challenge. Or worse, an allurement.

She looked at him fully and licked her finger.

"You ready for another round? Sergei says you have been avoiding training," Violet challenged.

"I don't have time. They are keeping me pretty busy on the 55th floor," Jake countered.

Her eyes floated from his knees to his eyes slowly. Meaningfully.

"That is what everyone is saying. Remember, it won't be the same next time. The longer you put it off, the more likely it is that you will be broken when we are done," Violet offered.

She made pain sound so...sensuous. Jake was afraid she might like it a bit too much.

"Well, they don't call me Humpty for nothing. I will see when I can clear my schedule and shoot you an email,"

The new girl leaned into Gary and whispered something to him. Gary smiled and turned away from Jake. Jake did not fail to notice.

The elevator doors opened and Jake watched as Gary held it open for the new girl. She brushed close to Gary while glancing back at him. Something in her eyes seemed familiar. Or maybe it was her nose. Gary winked at him and slipped into the stuffed elevator. Jake sighed and sipped his coffee as the door closed. He could see Violet's head bobbing in the middle of the press in the elevator and decided he would wait. His stomach could use a break. Soon, he was making his way to the floor he had called his home since he had returned from Los Angeles in January.

The office was bustling with agents, support staff, and management engaged in activity already. Some appeared to have been there all night. Ties were loosened, coffee cups littered trash cans, and the tension and surliness were in full force. Management barked orders. He heard one staffer, Melissa, he remembered, talking aggressively to someone on the phone.

It is seven-fifteen, for Pete's sake. Don't they know it is too early for this?

Jake was used to a leisurely morning routine: a coffee, a chat, and maybe some gentle ribbing of his team, before getting called into meet with his new boss, Alexandre Bumont. This much activity and fluster meant that either an assignment went awry or one was at critical mass. It wasn't his department or he would have been called in. He only had four emails this morning and all were junk mail.

Jake sipped his drink. He may not get the chance to enjoy it if this 911 spilled over.

Director Dumont was head of the Galbraith Foreign Security Crisis Team. The FSCT was instrumental in maintaining the balance of world order by exacting judgment upon those nations who demonstrated clumsy grasping of power. If a Somali war chief got involved in civil rights atrocities, he would have a dagger in his back within a week. If a Colombian cartel drug lord executed a government official or raped and pillaged a small village, he would end up dead from poisoning. In essence, Dumont was responsible for upholding the Galbraith mission statement.

"Good morning, Mr. Monday," Jill chimed.

"Good morning, Jill," he said brightly. He was more cheery than he actually felt. The life of an assassin required an undue amount of charm. Many folk were taken more unawares if he seemed jovial, humorous and likeable. The famous scowling, brooding, overconfident, braggadocious, and intimidating assassins seemed to have a short shelf life. Jake wanted to be more of a Twinkie than a banana _._

_Of course_ , he thought, _Twinkies may be extinct soon, too._

"Deputy Director Smith would like to see you in her office," she said, a smile somehow still on her face.

It was not necessarily that she was pronouncing doom upon him. The Deputy Director had a demeanor akin to Anjelica Houston in _When in Rome_ or Meryl Streep in _The Devil Wears Prada_. She was severe, unforgiving, and supremely intelligent.

Jake could not imagine why he would have any business with Deputy Director Smith.

"Thank you. You want a Danish? Lynn hates it when people eat in her office," he said, offering Jill his strawberry Danish with the thumbprint and wax paper wrapping.

"Sure," she said. She took it gingerly and dropped it into the trash as he turned. Jill was one of the few people in the office that could see through his farce. She gave him the same back. He knew she was as miserable as him.

When Jill had threatened to blow the whistle on Galbraith's illegal activities, someone had threatened her family. She was still working under protest and hid her derision for the other staff with a plastic smile and a syrupy sweet deportment. Jill was a short-termer. They shared that common trait, perhaps and so he forgave her before he even set foot into the well-lit offices of the Deputy Director.

"Good morning, Mr. Monday," Deputy Director Lynn said. She offered him a chair.

Lynn Smith had hair the color of straw. It was cut short like her personality. She was tall, in her forties, and had deep lines on either side of her mouth. Not laugh lines, for sure, he thought. More likely, she smoked. Her fingers were smooth and not yellowed, but he thought she was as discreet and polished in her smoking habit as she was fastidious about her personal space.

Everything in the office was at right angles. It was all hard, straight lines. Pictures were aligned perfectly, papers on her desk were arranged neatly. Her desk top was completely uncluttered except for a closed laptop. The windows looking out across the Hudson gave him a good view of the hazy clouds of the morning spring skyline. He imagined himself out on the Sound again. Or better yet, back in the Pacific.

"Thank you, Director Smith. To what do I owe the honor of accompanying you this fine morning?"

"Stow it, Monday. We have a situation and we need you immediately."

"We?"

"Yes." She sat, her mouth pulling down, her eyes sad and...scared. "We have had communications from our cell in Tokyo. A Chinese diplomat was held for ransom last week."

"Vice-Minister of Foreign Affairs, Zhou Yonglin, you mean?"

"Yes. Him. He is dead. Beijing is on a head hunt."

"How are we involved?" Galbraith rarely participated in political kidnappings. They were rarely worth it. Assassination paid better and had greater significance in controlling the balance of world affairs. Chaos for balance sake was the unwritten mission of Mr. Galbraith.

"We were protecting him. The situation got out of hand. He had ties to several of our clients. Zhou Yonglin held relationships that are key to maintaining our standing in that community. Over forty percent of our revenue is derived from China."

She seemed nervous.

"What are you not telling me?"

She hesitated. Her face was stone. She had been beautiful once, he noted. Now, she seemed too hard, too many edges to be attractive. She was unlove-able. Unloved. He could tell by her spartan lifestyle, her gruff demeanor, and her unflagging work ethic. She was a workaholic, a true patriot, conservative to a fault, and obstinate as a camel.

"Your team will fill in the details."

"That is not an answer. Why am I here?" He dropped the charm act long enough for her to understand that he was serious. It could be costly, but he needed an answer. She was making him nervous. Anything that involved scaring Deputy Director Lynn Smith would be high on his fear scale.

She sighed.

"You are being followed. We have evidence that, unbeknownst to you, someone is interested in your actions."

He shrugged.

"I am never alone. Cameras are everywhere. Adoring fans. I even have a stalker, it seems."

She smiled without humor.

"I have been briefed that your involvement in a recent extracurricular assignment off the official channels may have put you in direct contact with a young woman aboard your flight from New York to Los Angeles."

"The woman with the twisted ankle?" He remembered her; he had not given her a thought. Red hair. Slim, pretty ankles. Freckles at her nose.

_VANITY._ Silver locket. He had forgotten that. _What did I do with it?_

"Yes. Her. We investigated it and—"

"Why?" He was still puzzled over his lack of memory.

The locket was small and light in his hand. He remembered holding it on the plane, the sun filtering through the clouds and reflecting off the locket as it twisted from the chain in his hand. So familiar yet the memory was muffled, like a person talking through a door, like voices in another room. _Why did it seem he knew of this in another life?_

"We need information. Information is the key to our control of economic, social, and political balance. Our data tells us this lady was not listed on the passenger manifest. Some of our researchers feel that she was a government agent."

He raised his eyebrows.

"You think I am being followed by the CIA or FBI?"

"It is very likely. Your activity of late has been...formidable. Your workload has been daunting and we are worried that perhaps it has drawn the eye of the American government."

"Nice to know I am so popular," Jake quipped.

She ignored him.

"We plan to use your services for this assignment in hopes that you are followed."

He suppressed the urge to groan. He hated China. He had completed an assignment in Guangzhou a month ago and the smog was stifling. Then there was the sour taste of Sinegem.

"So I go to China to find the man who killed Yonglin?" Jake liked the sound of that. It smacked of justice.

"Not right away, no. We have an international incident on our hands here. There is enough blood here to implicate our whole organization. We cannot risk retaliating just yet. It would be too predictable. We are not the al Qaeda."

Jake did not need the reminder of who Galbraith truly was at that moment. He was still basking in the possibility that he could play the role of the good guy.

"So what do you have in mind?"

"First, we have to send you to Atlanta. Your team will brief you."

"Atlanta? I thought this was an international incident," Jake said.

"It is. Several of our contacts will be there for an economic summit. It will be a high-security event. We want your presence there to be extremely visible."

"I don't know how comfortable I am with extremely visible. I prefer the Casper the Ghost impressions over Donald Trump's hair piece."

"It is a strategic assignment. It is necessary. You will do this, Mr. Monday," she said. She set her hands on the desk with a finality that Jake understood meant that the matter was settled. "Which leads me to one last thing before I send you back to Alexandre. I just wanted to ask you one more time about your experience with this woman on the trip to Los Angeles," Deputy Director Smith said, her lips set in a grim line.

Jake thought all these questions about the woman were odd. They barely asked him any questions concerning Giselle. Jake had been assured that his performance regarding their largest client was completely within the parameters of their expectations. Not once had his superiors mentioned why they had felt it necessary to "test" him. This unanswered question left a burning ache in his head similar to the one that was conjured by the image of the spinning silver locket and VANITY.

"What more do you want to know?"

"For starters, would you recognize her if you saw her again?"

He thought about that before answering. His memory could be unreliable. He understood this and feared it. When Jake Monday feared something, his defense mechanism was to either fight it or ignore it. His memory of the lady who had tripped was that she had pretty ankles and a spray of freckles around her nose. Is that the sum total of his memory? What about the locket? Hadn't she given it to him? He was proud of his ability to note details and deduct people's life stories, sort of an amateur profiler. What was her dialect? Her level of education? The fabric of her clothes? The style of her hair? What did she smell like? What did her eyes tell him? Had she flirted with him, or had she been scared?

Jake knew if he concentrated, he would recall these things. They were important because they were details that kept him alive. However, he knew with the recollection would come immense pain. Dredging up memories of his past and accounting for gaps in time had become a value proposition. Was it worth the effort and misery? The answer was usually, no.

"Yes. I am sure I would recognize her," he said with confidence.

"Good. You may see her again. You must be ready."

"Am I bait for a trap?"

"No. You are the trap."
Chapter 14

## On Thin Ice

He was surrounded by corporate CEO's. Coca Cola. Delta Airlines. The Home Depot guy was shaking his hand. Everyone was smiling. No one knew he was a target. Some expected it, for sure. That was why The Man was surrounded by all those suits with sunglasses and hand guns.

It was too hot for suits, but everyone was wearing one, anyway. The stage was flanked by banners for Coke, Georgia Pacific, the Atlanta Falcons, and Warner Broadcasting. Media were everywhere. The air smelled like popcorn and flowers. The wind was blowing, mild and humid.

This event was scheduled to celebrate a new plan to lift tax burdens on local Atlanta businesses. Promises of more jobs, better pay, and improved products and services would be exchanged. Of course the President was here. Votes were here. Financial back scratching was here.

And so was he.

The buzzing in his ears was not from the flies or from the forty thousand people packed into the park. It came from the back of his head, from behind his eyes, and from deep within his body. He felt as though his whole body was thrumming, like it was wired. He was invincible and crippled at the same time.

A red haze made it hard to focus. He struggled to maintain his identity.

_Who am I?_ He would ask _._

_I AM the trap,_ a voice, very prideful and domineering would answer.

It did not matter. Only the mission mattered. He was the conduit. He was the switch. He had a limited capacity, but would produce a stupendous bang. Under it all, he knew he was Monday.

And over it all was an incessant buzzing. Until now, it had felt like he was on autopilot. He traveled, knowing his destination, understanding implicitly his assignment. It was what he did. But never this big. Never this brazen.

Jake looked down at his hands. They were not shaking. Of course not.

The Man, the target, the President, was standing before a lectern, talking. He was very animated. He gestured and the crowd roared. Jake could barely hear it all with the buzzing, but the noise of the crowd was palpable. He could feel it on his face. He could see the smiling faces through the haze. He could only focus if he watched the Man carefully.

The Man, the target, the President was the mission. He was the prey.

The Trap was a highly polished, instinctively capable machine of death. A predator. He must deliver his prey.

However, some of his self, the real Monday remained. A shred of his conscience was aware of it. It looked upon the pitiful thing he was as if through a thin film of ice. It was the noise and the pain that masked it. Through it all, through the haze and the buzz, beyond the crowded park and the cramped, smelly, humid ride aboard the MARTA, was a silver locket spinning from a chain.

He felt in his pocket for the last microchip. They were emitters. He had placed a dozen around the area. Near all the sound equipment. Under the stage, behind the big neon signs, beside the big network trucks. He fingered the circuitry. They were "marvels of modern technology."

_Who said that? Gary?_ It must have been. It sounded like something he would say, pride and awe mixing with nervous energy.

In his other pocket he felt the weight of a button and a small cylinder. The slim tube was his "BACK UP PLAN." The button would trigger an electromagnetic pulse between the microchips he had planted around the park. He should drop the one in his pocket. Tests had shown that the pulse could also cause major damage to internal organs and the nervous system.

The tube was a grenade that would emit the exact same effect in a more local area in case the button ploy did not work. It would be enough. Maybe. So many variables.

In the confusion that would ensue, the Trap would come alive. No guns. Only confusion, thousands of people and a small knife. It was in the folds of his sleeve, six inches long and barely a half inch wide. It was shaped like an ice pick. It was long enough to find the heart, or to puncture through the neck at the carotid artery.

_Suicide_ , he thought.

He was twenty feet from the stage.

_Seven strides_ , his mind told him. Monday could spring the trap. Monday had performed feats just as daring, just as dangerous, before. But the stakes had never been this high.

He glanced at all the executives seated around the Man. Some were standing. It was crowded on the stage. He counted six men with guns. Those were the ones he could see. He knew there were others. The ones on stage looked out among the crowd. He was one face among the thousands. Only, he wasn't smiling. He wasn't cheering. Surely, someone would notice.

_Suicide_.

_You are the Trap. The trap does not need to survive to succeed_ , the self-important voice reminded him. This felt like something that had been taught to him a very early age. He knew it in his soul. But, he did not like the voice. He did not like what it was telling him, even if it was something he already knew.

_Why do I care if I succeed? I want to live_ , he thought.

_The Man, The Plan, the Trap. That is all. That is your world. Accept it and you will succeed,_ the voice said. It seemed logical. Compelling. And wrong.

The Man continued to talk. The crowd continued to smile and wave, laugh and clap. The haze continued to threaten his vision, the buzzing continued to pierce his mind with its numbing drill.

All the doubts that had haunted him until now came boiling to the surface, frothing over the buzzing in his head, pushing past the red haze. _If I am Monday, why am I here? Why would I do this?_

"Excuse me. Mr. Monday?" A hand, slim and light on his elbow. He turned.

Would you recognize her if you saw her again?

_Yes. Yes, he would_.

She had a concerned look on her face. The crowd came to life around him. They erupted in applause. She seemed distracted for a moment. He swallowed, his eyes bulging. He dropped the microchip back in his pocket and tried to smile. He was sure it came out as a grimace. All he could think was, _VANITY_ , _VANITY, VANITY_.

"Yes?" He knew he was not supposed to recognize her. He feigned confusion, glancing back at the Man. The red haze had disappeared. The buzzing had stopped. He was so grateful, his eyes began to brim with tears.

"Do you remember me?" She looked hopeful.

He made himself act the part of someone waking up to a reality. It was not hard to pretend. He felt like he had been drowning. Was she saving him from the watery depths? Or, was she here to endanger The Plan.

"From the flight to LA this winter, right?" He had to almost yell to be heard over the crowd. He found himself leaning forward, grasping at the sleeve of his jacket. He could not help himself. It was habit. And, something else was compelling him, pulling him inexorably to a destination.

She smiled. Her freckles touched in places, like someone connecting dots. It was such an innocent smile. How could she be a danger? How could he plunge the knife into her soft neck?

_Who am I?_ He asked again. She had called him "Mr. Monday" and he had responded. That was right. But if so, why was he here?

_You ARE the Trap_ , the voice reminded him. It lacked its earlier conviction.

"Yes. You played doctor when I twisted my ankle," she said, above the roar of the crowd. She leaned closer to him, her voice straining. He could smell her perfume. If she was dangerous, danger smelled good. Rose petals and vanilla with a hint of jasmine.

"Of course," he looked down at her ankles. They were still there. "How are they now?"

"Fine. I wanted to thank you."

"You did." He tried on a smile. Thought maybe he could remember how to do it.

"Yes. But you left it on the seat beside you, I am afraid," she said, holding out her hand. In it she held a slim silver chain that held a small locket, spinning in the morning Atlanta sun. It reflected the light as it spun. It was all very mesmerizing.

In his mind's eye, he could hear what came next. And then, it was like he was plunging into a pool of water in reverse. His ears popped as if a pressure had been released. His vision cleared and he knew. Not all, but enough.

The words were on her lips. He could see them forming. He could not let her repeat them. The truth behind them was too terrible. He reached for her hand just as the speakers popped with a loud bang. People screamed. Lights flashed and went out. He heard curses.

He turned to look at the stage. The men there were whisking the President away. They each had a hand to one ear. Men, women, and children ran toward exits. The press of people around him dissipated. He stood amid a sea of discarded paper cups and flyers.

He knew that in those two seconds between the pop and the crowd's frightened reaction, he was supposed to have taken the life of the President. He also knew that even if he had succeeded, he would be dead right now.

He felt a sudden urge to cry. He had a violent reaction to failure. That was the truth of what had happened here. He had missed the opportunity. He had allowed himself to become distracted. He had botched his mission.

Part of him wept. Part of him was scared. The scared part of him turned to find the woman with the locket.

She was gone. Or, rather, she was on the ground. Blood ran from her ear. The skin on her right hand where she had held the locket looked as though it was burned. She was still smiling. The locket lay on the ground, a small trace of grey smoke rising from it.

Confused, Jake looked about for someone to help. A voice told him this was unwise. Who was he? Who was she? Did she just save him or stop him?

Abandon the Plan. Go Home.

He was disoriented. This woman had died at his feet, this woman who had stood there, in full knowledge of who he was. Not the Trap, not even Jake Monday, the assassin. Someone else, someone from before. Jake hoped he had not killed her.

He remembered the button in his pocket. He had not pushed it, he was sure. He glanced back to her still form lying curled in the grass. Who was she, and why had someone wanted her dead? It was connected to him, he knew. He had a hazy recollection of the conversation with Deputy Director Smith. He was the trap. But why?

Jake looked again at the locket. He was reminded of when he was a kid. He had stuck the barrel of his Halco cap gun revolver into the open light socket on the wall, pretending he could shoot his brother in the other room. The force from the electrical current had blackened the end of his pistol and sent him sprawling to the floor, tangled in his sheepskin vest and his plastic-heeled cowboy boots were flung to the wall. His mother had explained that some people could die from that. Others would get a tingling sensation. She compared it to being struck by lightning. Some survived. Some were changed. Some died. It was a mystery. Then and now. A mystery like the memory he had just dredged from somewhere unknown.

Was this woman really from the CIA and tailing him? He thought that would be a cruel jape. The woman with the key to his past, a past he knew was there, but could not pursue had died at his feet. Because of him. Was it because of who he really was? Or, was the threat to Galbraith palpable enough to kill her in this venue?

He knew answers to these questions would be elusive. But, looking around at the milieu around him, he suspected that the real mission here was to expose this woman publicly. So, what about his mission to assassinate the President? Was that as simple as it seemed? And who was pulling the purse strings for a hit like that? And why?

It rarely occurred to him to question the why of what he did. He knew it was a dangerous road to tread. In fact, his concern for Giselle had arisen more from a perceived ethical issue than from a truly altruistic mien.

The urge to flee overcame his analyzation of his predicament. His mission protocols kicked in. When he reviewed them, recalling them from his memory like a computer print-out, he realized that he was not meant to return. He felt the truth of it like a kick in the gut. If he was not to return, what would his welcome be like?

He recognized the logo for the Falcons. Atlanta. Running was a bad idea. He glanced around at the confusion around him and knew this was the best cover he could expect. No cameras. People are running, the stage is empty. Only a few people milling around with hands on their ears. With a final glance at the woman on the ground, he walked out toward gates.

On the way out, he dropped the cylinder in a trash can. He smiled at everyone and looked for someone he recognized. He was among thousands of confused, upset, scared people. Yet, he felt alone. The feeling was crushing his chest.

After an hour of wandering the streets amid the confusion, Jake got a cab. No one had stopped him. No one had recognized him. He found he had over three thousand dollars in cash. And he was indeed Jake Monday. He had always been, despite everything else that happened.

He got a ticket to New York with a Visa. No one looked at him askance. As he travelled, bits and pieces of the past six months came to him. Missions. Dangers. Suspicions. But over those memories was a patina of red. A haze that masked and contorted those recollections. When he tried to recall his earlier life, his life before Galbraith, all he got in return was a painful, blinding headache and the image of the picture by his bedside of people he did not recognize. Some things are hard to forget. Some things were impossible to remember.

_What am I?_ He asked himself. He loathed the answer when it came. It took him the entire weekend to sort out what his life had become. Something about it left a hollow pit in his stomach and made his heart hurt. His self-hatred crashed against him harder than the pain from buried memories he could not recall. The weekend left him battered, yet he dreaded what would be in store for him on Monday.

THE END

To Be Continued in

A Month of Mondays: Jake Monday Chronicles Book 2

Will Jake discover the truth about his past? Why is Jake being set up and who is behind it? To answer these questions and more, check out the next installment of the **Jake Monday Chronicles** at www.infinitewordpress.com.

Thank you so much for taking the time to read Manic Monday!! If you would take a moment to return to the place where you purchased the book and leave an honest review, it would be much appreciated.

Reviews help new readers find my work and accurately decide if the book is for them as well as provide valuable feedback for my future writing.

_Also, if you would like to receive updates on new releases, discounts, and special events, just sign up for my newsletter here:_ <http://eepurl.com/Bb5rD>_._

I do not record anything but your email address and your preference for reading device. You can opt out of receiving the newsletter whenever you want.
BONUS MATERIAL

An excerpt from CRY ME A RIVER

By Robert Michael

Infinite Word Press, 2012

Manuel Villarreal knew when something was not right. Most people had a sense of it when they made a mistake. Sometimes a sense of dread could overcome them or they would have a prescient moment. The way that Paul had explained it to Manny was that the Spirit of God moves in each person and manifests itself as guilt, prophesy, regret, or action, among other manifestations of the Spirit.

Whatever the explanation, Manny knew without a doubt that something bad was about to happen. Mostly he could attribute this sense of dread with a dream he had.

Initially, he had chalked it up to the heavy meal they had consumed together before they retired last night. It was not a premonition. It was a memory. This was not the first time he had experienced this dream.

He had dreamt of Domingo and his father. He remembered the dream so vividly because it called upon his memory, not his imagination. Often, when he had this dream, it foretold of pending trouble.

He recalled the dream again in his mind's eye as the boat drifted in port and he awaited the arrival of Paul and Claire. He closed his eyes and let the dream take him back to that time ten years ago. The gentle rocking of the boat in the moors allowed him to drift, to go back, and to experience the past again.

He moved through the jungle with four others. They were all shadows. Dressed in black with dark paint on their faces, their rifles were charcoal black, their painted bayonets black, and their knives at their sides a flat black, even the blades. They were murderous, black-clad devils, their movements graceful and deadly. Their purpose—dealing death—was awash upon their stoic faces, the set of their feet upon the lush forest floor, the urgent breathing, caught in their throats, ragged and full of expectation, revenge and regret.

They stole through the undergrowth toward a rise. Cesar, the tall one, took the rifle from his back, a Russian Dragonov sniper rifle he had stolen from a Nicaraguan militia. He stooped in the tall grass at the top of the hill and unzipped his carrying bag in the dark.

They gathered around him silently as he pulled out a large pouch. From it, he extracted the PSO-1 sights. He fitted it quickly on the side rail of the rifle. Then, he pulled from the bag a suppressor that fit on the barrel just past the flash reducer already there. He chambered a 7.62mm bullet from the ten round magazine with a sharp report.

Cesar looked up at them and nodded.

Manuel gave him a "thumb up" sign. They all hunkered down or lay prone on the grass. Cesar crawled forward; the sling wrapped around one hand, his elbows digging into the moist soil.

They managed this way until they could see the cabin less than two hundred yards away. Bright yellow light spilled from its windows and illumined the four guards standing near the front. The Venezuelan guards chatted quietly, their voices carrying in the night.

Manny checked his watch and then resumed his vigil. The men eyed him anxiously, their rifles at ready. He could hear their nervous movements as they checked extra magazines and the maps that each carried in their belts.

He looked for each of them, knowing their shapes by heart, knowing the gleam in each of their eyes. Miguel Santos, the wiry explosives expert from Cali. Luis Guilliermas, a French nationalist who had worked for the Villarreals for a decade. Mateo Chaguala Espanoza, the largest and strongest of the group. They called him The Santa Martan Bull. He carried the light machine gun, a Belgium-made FN MAG 10, with two metal boxes of ammunition.

They each had a role to play. Cesar was to quietly eliminate the guards so they could breach the perimeter. Miguel's role was to plant explosives to cover their retreat, taking out a bridge, an armored personnel carrier, and two guard towers about a click away. Luis and Mateo were to breach the compound with Manny as Cesar covered them from this rise.

Once Domingo was removed from the compound they would rendezvous at a truck they had stashed just over a kilometer to the north. Cesar would drive. It was a farm truck with Venezuelan tags. Cesar was known more as a farmer in these parts than a rifleman. Only Manny knew the truth.

Without warning, the grass in front of Cesar snapped as he fired the SVD. One man who had bent over to get a drink collapsed quietly into the dark surrounding the house.

Everyone held their breath and watched.

The other three guards in the valley below continued to talk.

One wandered off to the north.

Just as he was almost swallowed up by the night, they saw him lurch forward. Cesar had adjusted his rifle so that the grass would not give away his position. The night sounds remained uninterrupted. Birds chirped. Insects hummed.

Manny could see Cesar's smile, cold and satisfied in the gloom. His teeth were gritted together as he swung the rifle to the front again.

"Perhaps now would be good, Miguel," Manny said as he tapped him on the shoulder.

Miguel nodded silently and blinked. He gathered a satchel and his silenced FAMAE S.A.F. submachine gun. His face was grim and set as he moved stealthily toward the bridge below them.

Soon, the other two guards were down. Cesar moved off to the north, closer to the truck and in a better position to cover the others. Manny led Luis and Mateo down the path. They searched ahead for signs of more guards. There were none.

Manny glanced behind them, satisfied that he could not spot Cesar on the ridge, even though he knew his exact location: left of the large boulder before the tree line. He scanned the creek and watched as the silent silhouette of Miguel stalked toward the ditch on the opposite side of the road where the APC was parked, silent and hulking in the night.

The cabin was before them, its light casting the long shadows of the corpses littering the grounds. Manny could see inside past the glare. Several heads were visible, some seated, some pacing the room.

He placed his hand on the ground, pointed to Luis, and gestured to his left. He looked at Mateo and patted his back. Luis moved off to the left, his black boots crunching in the gravel of the drive. Mateo nodded and took up a position ten feet behind Manny and to his right as they approached the front door.

With eight armed guards and two officers inside, Manny didn't want to take too many chances with crossfire. They had Mateo for suppression, Luis using his shotgun from the side door and Manny's deadly aim with his folded stock AK-103. Theoretically, they would subdue the captors quickly, despite being outnumbered.

Before they reached the door, a shout from behind them pierced the gloom. Short, muffled bursts, signaled Miguel's submachine gun at work. A low groan emitted from near the ditch. The noise had alerted those inside the compound.

Movement from within was Manny's cue to hurry. Before he could clear the porch, though, Mateo began firing through the window. The light machine gun bucked in Mateo's hands, his face lit with effort and glee. His smile radiated through the night.

Manny leapt to the porch and to the left to avoid the spray of bullets whipping by him. They echoed in the night, ripping the rotten siding of the cabin to shreds and mowing down two guerilla captors.

He kept his back to the wall, glancing inside the only remaining intact window. He saw someone coming toward the door.

Manny fired from the hip, taking out a mustached officer as he slammed the front door open, an automatic pistol in one hand and a flashlight in the other.

The flashlight was torn from the officer's hand as his chest exploded in a rain of gore. Manny swore under his breath as he desperately searched for his brother inside. He could see him through the dirty glass of the window. Two men had Domingo between them. His head was slumped down, unconscious.

Manny heard the loud report of Luis' Franchi SPAS-12 tactical shotgun exploding inside the confines of the house. Someone screamed. Someone cursed. Blood splattered windows, wood splintered and Manny continued to move and fire in bursts. Two more guards lay dead.

"Reloading!" Mateo yelled.

Manny could see him squat down and hear the coil feed drop clinking to the ground beside him. Mateo opened the metal box and pulled a new chain of ammunition out and fed it into the huge rifle. Without suppression, without surprise, and without numbers to their advantage, Manny began to worry. He could see concern etched on Mateo's face as well.

Seasoned soldiers, they understood the risk they had taken following Manny into this folly. The Villarreal family would not allow their father's murder to go unpunished and they would never allow the family cartel to be taken from under them with violence. Retribution was necessary.

Manny felt a pull in the air near his shoulder and watched as a high-velocity shell tore out the eye of an officer who had flanked him while Mateo was reloading. Mateo glanced to the knoll and offered a silent nod of sincere thanks to Cesar. The officer snapped his head back and lay across the doorway.

Manny ran for the door, and hurdled the body, firing a round off as he entered. It penetrated an overturned couch and he heard the satisfying cry of a voice from behind it. He checked his left briefly, seeing Luis slumped near the side door, blood covering his pants and boots, a grimace of agony on his haggard face.

"You alright?" Manny asked.

"They left through the back." Luis responded, pointing with his eyes.

Manny heard the shuffle and clink of Mateo running while lugging the machine gun and ammo outside. Manny glanced out the window and saw him pursuing someone to the west, back toward Cesar's flank.

They would get away if he didn't move quickly. He patted Luis shoulder and exited through the back door.

The man he had shot behind the couch rose up, a long combat knife slashing the air. He stabbed out, missing Manny by a scant inch. By reflex, Manny smashed the man's cheek with his rifle. He felt the stock crunch against bone and watched out of his peripheral vision as the man slumped lifeless into a heap amid the overturned table. He rushed through the door and continued into the night, pursuing the plodding guards as they dragged the unconscious Domingo through the tall grasses west of the cabin.

Manny didn't stop to consider why they were running in the opposite direction from the APC until he saw the headlights bounding through the grass towards him. A truck skidded to a stop, illuminating the retreating guerilla soldiers. Then shots fired, bullets arcing blue and white fire into the darkness, flinging dirt and spraying grass all around him.

A white hot pain struck his arm and spun him around as he ran. He lost his balance, dropped his rifle and felt the earth come up to meet him roughly as he fell. He heard Mateo shout and fire at the truck as the men pushed Domingo into the back.

Another bullet tore into his ankle, shattering bone and tendon. He grasped the grass in front of him and tried to lie lower, crawling desperately and fighting the pain in his arm and leg. He reached for the .45 at his waist and brought it up with his good hand and fired off several shots, knowing he was firing too high and too wildly.

The same was not true for Mateo. His shots rained across the hood of the car, pinging off the engine, flattening the front tire, caving in the passenger door. The door flew open as the truck hurtled past them and one man fell out limp to the ground. Mateo began to fire at the truck as it fled back toward the bridge.

"NO! Domingo is in the back! Mateo!"

He fired high, stopped suddenly, and fell forward, face first. There was a moist smack as his gun hit the ground. Manny blinked. Mateo was dead.

Manny struggled to his knees and crawled over to him. Just as he reached him and saw the large exit hole in his skull, he heard the truck stop with a loud screech, and a scream of the engine. Manny looked up in time to see it flip over, end over end. He felt a sickened knot develop in his chest.

He tucked the .45 into the waist of his slacks and grabbed Mateo's weapon. He used it as a crutch to rise to standing. As he did, he glanced again to the ridge. He saw a glint of light off the optic sight of Cesar's SVD. Suspicious, Manny grimaced as he limped forward to the truck immobile and on its side two hundred feet away.

As he neared the durable personnel carrier, he could see flames licking the underside near the engine. He knew time was crucial. Two bodies lay to the side of the truck, one the driver and the other the final guard. He was dead. The driver groaned and turned over onto his back.

Manny stepped on his hand, which held a .45 Colt revolver. A classic, American Wild West revolver like his cousin Al liked to play with. Manny shot the man in the center of the head with a single shot from the FN MAG.

He heard footsteps and looked up to see Luis struggling across the field. He stopped and looked at the truck, his eyes sad and his right arm hanging limp and dripping blood down his side. He was dead, standing.

"This was a mess," he admitted. He collapsed to his knees on the grass.

"Yes, Luis. A mess. Stay here a minute. I will be back. I have to see if Domingo is alive."

"You'll die trying."

"If I must," he said, not looking at Luis. He stared at the truck as the flames raised higher, lighting the grass around it in a smoky blaze.

He staggered forward, limping on his destroyed ankle. His arm throbbed mercilessly. He trudged on inexorably and lifted the canvas cover over the rear compartment of the truck. Domingo lay there, his leg at a sickening angle beneath his torso, his arms splayed over his head in a sort of bizarre dance pose.

Manny got on his knees, feeling the heat of the fire licking at his clothes. He crawled, it was easier than walking. He grabbed Domingo's collar and dragged him out from the back of the truck. He didn't examine him closely. For all he knew, Domingo was dead. His body certainly felt stiff and heavy.

"Come on, brother. Wake up," he whispered hoarsely. The smoke was filling his lungs, burning his throat. His eyes watered. With all his strength he pulled. He could feel the muscle in his arm tear more. He could feel the crunch of the shattered bones of his ankle.

Pretty boy Manny would never look the same. He smiled despite the pain, despite the fear and grief that grasped at his heart. Father, and now Domingo. He pleaded with God, a God he had never believed in. A God that he had denounced. Now Manny needed Him, would do anything.

The tears in his eyes streamed down his face, etching the soot there in moisture, leaving a dark trail. Through the smoke and the tears, Manny saw the figure of Luis lying in the grass now where he had left him. His breath came in shallow spurts and rasps.

Luis looked at him from the ground, turning his head. He smiled at him sadly and blinked slowly.

"You found him. He looks as dead as me."

"You both will be fine. Cesar will come get us in the truck soon."

"No. Cesar killed Mateo and shot the driver. He is working for them, too. Manny, be car—" he coughed, blood splattering the grasses near him. He swallowed with a grimace. "Be careful, Manny. They will kill all the Villarreals."

Luis' face and his words haunted his dreams ever since. In those next few years after he had rescued Domingo, avenged their father's death, and re-established the Villarreal family legacy, Manny had taken a great amount of pride in his efforts to never allow Luis' prophecy come true.

Many times as danger lurked, he would have this dream. It was a dream to remind him that enemies were everywhere and that even the most innocent had an agenda.

He opened his eyes, taking in the vista of the mountains ahead, the river cutting a wide brown swath through the forest and the fields. He wondered what threats were at hand and if maybe he was in the wrong place, if maybe he had made the wrong decisions. The past beckoned him, his guilt called him, a sense of responsibility pulled at him.

He regretted speaking to Paul the way he had last night. Deep down, Manny knew that Paul was right. He could not ignore the influence of the dream and the warning it held. At the same time, he could not submit to the man he had been. He had to focus on the man that God wanted him to be.

He felt sad and wary. He had left his brother alone with wolves at his door. If only he could convince Domingo to put it all behind him and begin a new legacy. Maybe it was too late, maybe that was why the dream had come and why his gut was telling him something bad was going to happen soon.

### CRY ME A RIVER

### By Robert Michael

### _Available at_ www.infinitewordpress. com _._
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Robert Michael is a writer and commercial roofing sales director. His love for books, family, and God fill his time and his spirit. He enjoys reading, writing, sports, fishing, and gaming. He lives in Broken Arrow with his wife and four children.

GET NEWS, NEW RELEASE ANNOUNCEMENTS, FREE & DISCOUNTED BOOK ALERTS, AND MORE BY SUBRSCRIBING TO OUR NEWSLETTER!

**Sign up here:** <http://eepurl.com/Bb5rD>

Connect with the Robert at:

www.facebook.com/infiniteword

www.robertamichael.blogspot.com

www.twitter.com/InfiniteWord

Other books available from Infinite Word Press:

DARK MOUNTAIN by Robert Michael

THE VAGARY TALES by Robert Michael

CRY ME A RIVER by Robert Michael

MANIC MONDAY (JMC #1) by Robert Michael

A MONTH OF MONDAYS (JMC #2) by Robert Michael

THANK GOD IT'S MONDAY (JMC #3) by Robert Michael

THE MONDAY COLLECTION, Vol. 1 by Robert Michael

RAINY DAYS AND MONDAY (JMC #4) by Robert Michael

**Get your copy today at** http://www.infinitewordpress.com **.**
