Endeavour
Flashlight Enthusiast
Chapter One
It was pouring.
Jim K grumbled as he puttered down the highway, his 1972 Volkswagen Beetle having a hard time on the slick road.
"It had to be pouring today. Why the Hell did it have to be today?"
He reached the exit he was driving towards and got off onto the access road. A few minutes later the Volkswagen was on the side of the road, emergency lights flashing, Jim cursing and looking for his emergency gear.
He successfully fenced off his car with some miniature LED flashers and popped open the hood. A wall of thick, black smoke greeted his entry.
"Damn gas line."
15 minutes and a few strips of duct tape later and he had patched up the gas leak and checked the rest of the mechanics. He clicked off his flashlight and slammed the engine compartment shut. A truck then drove by and pulled up in front of him.
A middle-aged woman, her years beginning to show, stepped out of the truck. Her attire consisted of an all-concealing trench coat and a grimaced look across her face. She started walking through the torrents of rain towards Jim.
"Hey! Thanks for your concern and help," Jim called, "but I've got everything under control, I was just packing things up."
The woman continued her advance towards him.
What the heck is this about?
When she was about 5 feet from the Beetle she flashed open her trench coat and pulled out a silenced Beretta 92FS and fired.
"HOLY poop!" Jim yelled, then dropped behind the car as two shots pelted his chest. He scrambled around to the passenger side as the woman continued her pursuit around the vehicle.
"Who the Hell are you?!" he yelped as she focused the tritium night sight on him.
No answer.
A car had lost traction due to the inclement weather and barreled down the road, laying on the horn when he saw the woman standing by the VW. The assailant glanced over, and Jim saw his chance.
A swift kick later and the assassin was on the asphalt. The driver of the other vehicle regained control and continued down the road. Jim hopped to his feet and dashed towards the woman's truck, which had been left on. He thrust it into drive and slammed on the accelerator. The tires screamed loudly and the truck veered left and right, unable to get traction on the slick road.
Two shots smashed through the window above and to the right of Jim's head, and then the vehicle grabbed the pavement and shot away.
What the Hell just happened-what should I do-am I being followed-are there others-what about-how did-
What in God's name is going on?!
Jim drove for hours, constantly peering at his rear view mirror, and checking the truck's gauges. He was familiar with most of the area he was driving in, and took many obscure, backroads at high speeds to attempt to lose anyone possibly pursuing him. He only stopped when the gas gauge lit up and pulled into a grungy little gas station.
A tinny sound came from inside the building playing "Only the Good Die Young" by Billy Joel. Jim walked in and handed the weasel-faced clerk behind the counter a $20 and went outside to fill the tank.
Jim K is a down-to-earth, slightly eccentric individual with a massive collection of flashlights and anything else light related, as evidenced from a ticket he received months earlier for an excessive lighting violation on his VW. He's the head of his own manufacturing firm, Rothran Gear Incorporated, where he manages the day-to-day operations of the company and it's associations with various OEM firms across the globe. The company produces tactical gear and go-bags for various law enforcement and military firms.
Finally in a less frenzied state, he unbuttoned his striped collared shirt and pulled out two mashed lumps of lead, stuck in a new vest he had decided to test for comfort earlier in the afternoon for possible use in some of the newer Rothran Gear product lines. Still shaken, he removed the vest and revealed two massive welts across his chest precisely where his heart was a short distance inward. He winced when he touched the sternum, then removed the now weakened vest and tossed it into a trash can close by.
Tank filled, he departed.
After settling his thoughts Jim stuck his hand into his soiled jacket and retrieved a small cell phone and speed dialed a number. A man answered on the other end.
"John Trotto."
"John? Man, I'm damn glad to hear your voice, you're not gonna believe this crap…"
"Did you drop another 25 pound object on one of your appendages?"
"I'm serious… Some woman tried to kill me with a silenced pistol while I was fixing my bu-"
"You're still driving that old clunker?!"
"John! Listen damn it! I was SHOT. You hear me? S-H-O-T. Fired upon with a silenced weapon."
- Silence -
"I'm listening…"
* * * *
The woman throws her Beretta across the road and curses. She kicks the dormant Volkswagen and yells in anger, then forcibly removes a small phone from her trench coat and dials a number.
"This is Sasha… I've got a problem, my vehicle is gone, the target stole it… Yes, I understand… I will be there…"
She clicks the phone off and tosses it into the engine compartment of the beetle and walks away.
Five minutes later the car explodes.
* * * *
"I'll catch the next plane out Jim, in the meantime, stay safe, don't get into another damn hole. I'll call you when I reach the airport."
"Thanks John…"
The rain had subsided and the night was reaching its climax. Jim clicked off the phone and shoves it back in his pocket, and continued driving down the wet road.
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Two
"Please fasten your seatbelts as we make our final approach and landing."
John Trotto buckled his seatbelt and continued work on his laptop.
"Please put your tray tables up and your seatback in its full and upright position, and turn off any and all electronic devices."
A flight attendant walked down the aisles and checked to make sure everyone followed the given directions.
"Sir, we are on our final approach and Federal Law mandates…"
John Trotto flashed a badge at her that read: AGENT JOHN TROTTO | CIA.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you sir, but please use your computer on your lap so as not to disturb the passenger in front of you."
John grumbled. The plane ride and service had been a complete joke. There was no food service, and no snacks were served since a person on board was deathly allergic to peanuts, and even the scent would trigger convulsions. On top of that, the cooling units in the airplane had a wire shorted by the last maintenance crew, so all the ice had melted and the drinks were warm.
Just leave me be and hurry up and land… Let me off this damn plane.
15 minutes later the plane landed, making the signature squeal and smoke of passenger planes as it made contact with the tarmac.
John finished up his work and packed up his machine. It had been a long flight from Washington to California, where he had agreed to meet Jim K. He had been briefed in detail over the phone about this woman assassin who tried to kill Jim while he was repairing his car. He had called a few contacts within the Central Intelligence Agency to dig up what they had on Jim, and any see if anyone had any record of female assassins, which are few and far between.
A half hour later John was standing outside the baggage terminal waiting for Jim to arrive in the black Toyota Tundra that he had stolen. He turned up about 5 minutes later and John entered the vehicle, tossing his large bag in the back seat.
"Jim."
"John."
"Long time no see Jim, I wish circumstance would have found us in a better situation."
Jim doesn't reply.
"You look rather ragged, let's head over to the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego and stay the night. We'll sort this out then. Pretty close shots there in the windows, you're lucky…"
John pulled out his PDA, hooked up the GPS system, and punched in the address for the hotel. The device mapped out its route and began dictating when the next turns should be.
"Fine." Jim replied.
Jim K drove through the night to reach California from Iowa, and is nearly mute due to a strong caffeine induced sleeplessness in order to not have to stop anywhere on the road. The conversation throughout the ride to the hotel is minimal. John pops open his laptop again and begins searching government databases with the license plate number of the car, which, expectedly, is registered to a rental car agency back in Iowa. He puts away all his equipment and watches the road.
An hour later the two men arrived at the hotel and checked in. They're escorted to the room by a bellhop, who waits a tentatively for a few seconds, expecting a tip that doesn't come, then leaves.
"Get some sleep, Jim. I'm going to unpack a few things and make a couple of calls."
Jim nodded and quickly fell into a light sleep, his body rather unsuccessfully trying to confound the effects of the remaining chemical sleeplessness.
4 hours later he woke up, groggy but significantly more rested than before.
John looked up away from his laptop and put a hand over the receiver of the phone.
"Good, you're awake! Now, while I finish things up here, please, take a shower. You look disheveled and smell worse than that."
Jim laughed wryly and went into the bathroom to wash himself off.
"Hello, Klaus?"
"Ja, I'm still here."
"Jim just woke up, told him to get in the shower."
"Ah, yes."
"Well, I'll give you a call again if we need anything, you can be ready at a moments notice, correct?"
"Of course John. Just let me know if you ever need anything. You're welcome to use some of our safehouses in Germany if you need to as well."
"Thanks Klaus. I'll keep you in mind."
John hung up the phone and turned off his laptop. He tossed himself into the bed Jim had been sleeping on, and turned on the TV. His suitcase is still sitting unopened on the other bed.
That evening at around 7PM John Trotto and Jim K sat down at the hotel restaurant, more at ease and happier than before. Jim had ordered a rather large Club Sandwich, and John some pasta in pesto sauce. The two were commenting on the quality of their meals in between bites. After their stomachs were filled the two sat back and talked over a beer about the events of the past few days.
"So, Jim, is there any reason why anyone would want to kill you, anyone with a vendetta, you offended someone, anything?"
"For God's sake John, you know me better than that. All I do is manage Rothran Gear day in and day out."
"Strange. There are some loons out there though. You didn't drop a 25 pound weight on someone else's hand, did you?"
Silence.
Jim had recently dropped a 25 pound piece of metal and mangled up his hand while in the shops of Rothran Gear.
"Not funny."
Suddenly two shots rang out into the restaurant, flying past Jim's head as he bottomed-up his beer. The restaurant screamed. He fell backwards in the chair and spilled what was left of his drink all over his upper body and face and coughed.
"ON THE FLOOR! NOW! EVERYBODY GET DOWN!" John screamed to the restaurant.
"Jim! C'mon, this way! Stay down."
Two more shots rang through the restaurant, bursting the walls into a brilliant explosion of plaster, wood, and insulation. The two men stayed their course towards the kitchen entrance, crawling beneath tables and chairs as much as they could.
Another shot flew past, this time above John's head, nicking a few hairs.
"poop! Too close! He knows where we're headed."
John scrambled under another table, pulled out a Walther PPK and yelled at people to clear the areas under the lights. He fired a few shots and downed the chandeliers, plunging the room into darkness lit only dimly by the lights from the kitchen doors and the sidewalk lamps outside the restaurant.
John grabbed Jim's shirt collar and brought his face in close.
"I need you to listen to me. New plan. The kitchen is lit up, and he'll see anyone go through there. I need for you, when I say so, to run for the exit and keep running towards the room. I'll be out of here two seconds after you."
"Got it."
"GO!"
Jim stumbled out from under the table and awkwardly ran towards the exit, his balance not yet attained. John followed precisely two seconds after, gun pointed out the restaurant windows looking any signs of the assassin's movements.
John caught up with Jim and barked directions to get to the room as fast as possible. The two ran for 3 minutes towards their suite and burst in, hoarse and frantic.
John rushed toward the suitcase and brokes apart the lock with a Leatherman tool, not having time to search for the keys. He unzipped it and flipped open the two halves, revealing a carefully arranged set of automatic weapons, pistols, ammunition, and other pieces of assorted tactical gear.
"I should have shown you this and set it up earlier, but I didn't think it would be necessary. Quickly, put on everything I give you."
John threw Jim a set of body armor, tactical vest, night vision goggles, holsters, 2 Walther P99s and extra magazines, and an Uzi with a few extra magazines as well.
Jim suited up and managed a small chuckle seeing that the tactical vest was a Rothran Gear product. He quickly shoved the extra magazines into the pockets of the vest, holstered the 2 P99s and slung the Uzi over his left shoulder.
John armed himself with body armor, a tactical vest, night vision goggles, holster, a Desert Eagle with extra magazines, and an MP5 Submachinegun with extra clips.
"You take the perimeter from the left side, I'll take the right."
John threw the suitcase into a corner, the remaining weapons and ammunition making a metallic clatter as they impacted one another.
They slipped on their night vision equipment and dashed out of the room, knowing that if the assassin knew they were at the hotel, he also knew what room they were in.
Glass shattered. The sliding glass window had just been shot and a firestorm of bullets pummeled the room, making series of dull thuds as they came in contact with the walls. John motioned to Jim to run around the side of the building toward the back of the room to flank the assailant.
Jim ran around the side of the building, creeping close to the walls and checking all angles through his night vision goggles. He reaches the corner and peaks around the side.
Nothing.
He looked around the area and saw no one in the vicinity.
He ran around the back of the building and met up with John again.
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
"Maybe he's gone? Past the tennis cour…" John is interrupted as the wooden siding of the hotel rooms bursts into splinters. The shrapnel pelted the vests and body armor to no avail.
"Christ! This guy is having an off day!" John yells as he runs towards the hotel tennis courts.
Jim took the left side of the four courts and ran down. He squinted through his goggles and saw a figure jump off the side of the balcony by the beach and start running down the sand. He glanced to the right and saw that John spotted the assassin as well, and was running in a fury towards the balcony. He leapt over it in a single bound and sprinted down the sandy slopes.
John laid good pursuit on the sniper, but suddenly lost him after he rounded a bend around part of the hotel's restaurant balcony. Agent Trotto paused temporarily to look around and get his bearings. A mistake.
The sniper saw his opportunity, hiding in a crevice under the balcony, just remote enough to not be able to be seen by night vision goggles. He had a the foul luck earlier of being attacked by an angry seagull before he fired a shot, and missed his last round by a few inches and hit the building instead. He stowed the sniper rifle and pulled out a silenced Beretta FS92 pistol, issued to him by his employer, and took aim. The target paused a few too many precious seconds.
He fired.
His employer was known to him only as Centigrade. Whether it was an individual, corporation, or any other entity was not known. He didn't ask questions.
The target yelled and fell onto the sand, clutching onto his arm and dropping.
He did, however, have previous encounters with this individual he was now finishing. A few times before, in Hawaii, this man had been assigned to an incident involving the deaths of a few prominent individuals, which he had been hired to eliminate. Agent Trotto and he had a history, both always narrowly escaping each other. He relished the idea of finally winning the game of cat and mouse.
He tossed the sniper rifle into the sand and walked out of under the balcony. He swiftly walked over to the downed man who aimed a Desert Eagle at him with his uninjured arm. He shot the gun out of his hand, breaking the fingers.
John roared in furied anguish.
The assassin raised his weapon, and took aim.
Jim had laid chase on John and the assassin, but hadn't caught up until he saw John writhing on the sand. Not sure where the shots had come from, he threw himself onto the ground next to a beam of the balcony and watched the events unfold. He saw the man emerge from under balcony and approach John. As soon as he was out of the man's peripheral vision he got up and stealthily crept behind him as he strode towards John.
When the assassin took aim at John's head, Jim yelled, firing a storm of bullets from his dual P99s at the man's back. The assassin arched backwards, and then fell off to the side.
Jim ran over to John and helped him up as he winced in visible pain from the arm wound.
"You alright?"
"Yeah. This thing stings like no other though… What took you so long?"
"Oh, you know, I was occupied removing one of those 25 pound objects that keep crushing my extremities."
Jim smiled and John let out a stifled laugh.
They crouched over the assassin's body and went over it looking for any papers, identification, anything that could possibly be useful. John Trotto knew the man from before as Cornelius Bulk, an alias of some sort, but his only known identity. Apparently he had succeeded in wiping himself from all US Databases, though they did have a file for him under the alias Bulk. They found nothing on the man aside from extra clips, a wallet, and a MagLite strapped next to his holster.
Agent Trotto walked along with Jim and headed back to the room. They walked in from the back over the shards of glass then cleaned John's wound and set the fingers. The bullet only deeply grazed the side of the arm, going straight through but not getting lodged inside the body. The fingers were bruised and of a deep purple.
John tended to himself in the bathroom; Jim set his fingers, and then packed the gun bag and other assorted gear that John had brought along. The two changed clothes, Jim borrowing an extra set from John. The tactical gear was put away, but they kept two pistols about them in the event of any occupational hazards and donned the body armor still atop an undershirt and covered by another T-Shirt.
They left the hotel thirty minutes later.
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Three
Police responded to calls from a few concerned motorists about an incinerated car with charred objects scattered about its perimeter. When they arrived they found the carbonized remains of a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, apparently destroyed by an explosion in the gas tank.
They also found a crumpled body off the side of the road, burned beyond recognition. Dental records indicated that it was the body of Jim K.
He was officially pronounced dead later that evening.
* * * *
A small black Ford Taurus left the parking garage of the Hotel Del Coronado. The woman driving it picked up a small phone and dialed a number.
"This is Sasha."
"You had me sleep with a man in order to get use of his services. I did as requested, and you idiots chose a guy who couldn't shoot the broadside of a barn! What the…"
"Yes, I realize this wouldn't have happened if I'd taken care of the target the first time…"
"Yes, the bomb is placed on the vehicle the two men were using, timed detonation."
She clicked the phone off and tossed it in the cup holder and continued driving into the night.
* * * *
Jim K and John Trotto left the hotel and walked toward the stolen black truck, suspect that it was the cause of their current state of affairs. John angrily cursed his stupidity since before he left the room and exclaimed that he "should have thought to check the damn thing for trackers beforehand."
John was right. Under the car, next to the muffler, was a small, insignificant looking black box fixed to the undercarriage. He had Jim rip it off due to his damaged arms, and with the top exposed they saw a green indicator verifying the uplink. He tossed the device onto the floor and jumped on it, smashing it into many shattered fragments of plastic and circuit board.
"That takes care of that, I did see one other thing further down though, let me take a look again."
John slid back down under the vehicle, from the front side this time and wriggled around in the parking lot grunge.
"Oh poop."
"What?" Jim replied.
"There's a timer here, connected to a small pack of C-4 hooked to the fuel line."
"Get the heck out of under there then, you fool!"
"Nah, it's alright, it still has 5 minutes left. I think we'd better be getting out of here and taking a taxi instead, though."
John struggled out from under the car with some difficulty; his fingers set inside metal and foam splints on his right hand, and a damaged arm on the left.
The two men walked out of the parking garage quickly, Jim dragging along the suitcase full of weaponry, both of them still clad in body armor and tactical vests.
John Trotto was a man of 24 years, and had known Jim for quite some time, the two having a long-standing relation since before John entered the government and Jim started Rothran Gear. The two didn't see each other in person very often, but conversed once or twice per month by phone, since their jobs usually kept them busy. John joined the US Army early on, and quickly rose through the ranks of Army Intelligence, which led him to the CIA. He was not the crème de la crème, but he certainly had a bright and promising future ahead of him in the agency. He already had some higher-level access permissions, and showed promise to most of his superiors.
The men arrived at a taxi-frequented road a block or two away from the hotel. Shortly after their departure from the garage a loud explosion was heard, followed by a dull thud and the wails of car alarms going off over the entire building. They signaled a driver of a signature taxi-yellow van, loaded their belongings into the vehicle, and requested to be driven to the airport.
"Turn the meter off and get there quickly," John ordered, "I'll pay you 100 dollars to get there the fastest way."
"Yes sir." The driver replied.
They arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, paid the man, and walked inside. In a restroom they removed their pistols and placed them inside the suitcase. John changed shirts to not have the ashen-gray stains of parking lot grunge showing.
John checked his bag at an American Airlines and showed identification for the proper markings to be placed on the bag for it not to be confiscated by TSA employees.
"One ticket to Dallas, TX please, and another to Munich, Germany, connecting through DFW."
"Ok Sir. These flights are full, but we can find you the seats you need." The clerk replied with a smile.
John smiled back and made the final arrangements for the flights, then departed with Jim to the security points.
Both removed all their metal items, but Jim repeatedly beeped as he passed through the scanners and was required to remove his shoes and be searched by baton. Angrily he did as instructed and the source of the problem was found to be a nail clipper he neglected to remove from his pocket, which the TSA goons promptly confiscated. He stormed out of the checkpoint towards the gate, John Trotto laughing loudly at his predicament as they left.
"So why am I going to Germany, exactly?" Jim inquired after his anger with the TSA subsided.
"I've got a few friends there who will take care of you until all of this can be sorted out."
"Why can't I go to someplace else in the United States?"
"Because right now, we don't know who's coming after you, and it's unlikely they'll be able to track the inner circles of who I'm sending you to."
"And who's that?"
"A man named Klaus Stoetzel. He's an old friend of mine, son of an ex-KGB. He's a good egg and very well connected, don't worry."
The plane did not arrive for another half an hour, so they headed up to the American Airlines Admiral's Club, drank, and munched away the day's stresses on multiple cups full of pretzels. John popped open his laptop and tried hooking up to the US Government Intranet to no avail. He called his supervisor in Langley and was taken aback by what was to come.
His superior, Paul Gautier, screamed at him over the phone, and forcibly informed him that he was no longer part of the Central Intelligence Agency and all his accesses were either now revoked or being revoked.
"YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO DELVE INTO MATTERS WITHOUT PRIOR CONSENT FROM ME!" Paul roared.
"But I've got the clearance to…"
"NO YOU DON'T! NOT ANYMORE!"
"What?"
"YOU'RE GONE TROTTO! THAT'S IT, ALL YOUR PRIVILEGES HAVE BEEN REVOKED."
"Why the hell is that?"
"You're delving too deep in matters that don't concern you. Go home John Trotto."
And with that Paul Gautier hung up.
John slumped back into his chair and Jim looked over at him concerned, having heard the general conversation through the screams the vibrated out of the speaker of the John's Nokia cell phone.
"What happened."
"Hell if I know. I've apparently lost all my security clearances and my job, they told me to go home…"
"Why?"
"Like I said Jim, I don't know! I don't know…"
John winced, aware of the pain in his arm again.
"You alright?"
"Yes, fine Jim, just peachy." John replied in a caustic tone.
He reached over to the chair next to him and grabbed his IBM Thinkpad laptop. He popped open the keyboard, which gave him access to all the internal components. He ripped out a small plastic device hooked up to the green circuit board at the bottom of the case, tossed it on the floor, and ground it into oblivion with the heel of his shoe.
"What was that?" Jim inquired.
"A tracker for this machine, in case it gets lost. It also gives our headquarters the ability to remotely access and delete system files. I've got a bad feeling about this, and don't want either of those happening."
Paul Gautier was one of his few superiors that never quite liked him. However, until now, he was never openly hostile. There was reason for John to be suspicious of him, though.
John shook his head in frustration, got up, and walked over to the front counter to change his flight. He handed the woman at the counter his credentials and presented the record locators and flight numbers required and asked for his flight to be changed to the same one as Jim's and requested a seat next to his. The woman cheerily complied, flashing her fake, semi permanent smile at him when she finished.
He walked back to where he was sitting with Jim, grabbing another two cups of pretzels on his was back.
"So what's the deal?"
He set down a cup of pretzels in front of Jim.
"Thanks, but…"
"I changed my flight. I'm going with you to Germany. I was going to stop by Dallas and go to a military hospital where I had a few buddies, but I'd prefer to stay clear of any incoming bureaucratic trains that might be headed in my direction for the time being…"
"Alright."
John grabbed his cup of pretzels, examined it without much thought, and started peckishly eating them one by one.
"Tell me more about this Cornelius Bulk guy." Jim requested, after a few minutes silence.
"He's just an assassin for hire that I had a few run-ins with. He's typically a very sharp shooter, and gruesomely professional at what he does. We got incredibly lucky earlier."
"Know anything else?"
"Not that I can tell you."
"Why's that? You're out of the CIA now, have you got anything to lose by helping me figure out who's after me?"
"No, I suppose not…" John sighed. "He's killed many prominent individuals, and I tracked him down to Hawaii at one point. He's also gotten a couple of people caught in the crossfire, which made a PR mess for everyone at the office… You may remember names on the news such as Brad Frost, Jeremy Baxton, Bill Blaine, among a handful of other individuals. Those people were all chalked up to random hate crimes, but they were really just caught in the way of this Bulk guy as he was pouncing towards the jugular of his target."
"Really?"
"Yep…"
"Jim, if I knew that, so would you. Right now, I'm really, really upset. I'm going to give Klaus a call and let me know we're on our way, and then we'll get out of here."
"Alright. Sorry."
John grabs the phone on the table next to him and dials an international number to Germany.
"Stoetzel... Was?" a man answered in German.
"Hey Klaus, this is John."
"Oh, hello John… Why are you calling me at 5 in the morning?"
"Klaus, I'm getting on a plane to go to Frankfurt, Flight number 70 with American Airlines. I'll be there in about 15 hours."
"You don't waste any time, do you John? I'll see you tonight around 2000, then."
"Thanks Klaus… Sorry about the early wake up, get some sleep."
"No problem John, have a good flight."
John hung up and motioned to Jim to get up. He finished his cup of pretzels and walked to the gate some three minutes away from the club. They arrived as Group One was being called to board the plane. They passed through the ticket verification machine, then boarded the aircraft.
It was pouring.
Jim K grumbled as he puttered down the highway, his 1972 Volkswagen Beetle having a hard time on the slick road.
"It had to be pouring today. Why the Hell did it have to be today?"
He reached the exit he was driving towards and got off onto the access road. A few minutes later the Volkswagen was on the side of the road, emergency lights flashing, Jim cursing and looking for his emergency gear.
He successfully fenced off his car with some miniature LED flashers and popped open the hood. A wall of thick, black smoke greeted his entry.
"Damn gas line."
15 minutes and a few strips of duct tape later and he had patched up the gas leak and checked the rest of the mechanics. He clicked off his flashlight and slammed the engine compartment shut. A truck then drove by and pulled up in front of him.
A middle-aged woman, her years beginning to show, stepped out of the truck. Her attire consisted of an all-concealing trench coat and a grimaced look across her face. She started walking through the torrents of rain towards Jim.
"Hey! Thanks for your concern and help," Jim called, "but I've got everything under control, I was just packing things up."
The woman continued her advance towards him.
What the heck is this about?
When she was about 5 feet from the Beetle she flashed open her trench coat and pulled out a silenced Beretta 92FS and fired.
"HOLY poop!" Jim yelled, then dropped behind the car as two shots pelted his chest. He scrambled around to the passenger side as the woman continued her pursuit around the vehicle.
"Who the Hell are you?!" he yelped as she focused the tritium night sight on him.
No answer.
A car had lost traction due to the inclement weather and barreled down the road, laying on the horn when he saw the woman standing by the VW. The assailant glanced over, and Jim saw his chance.
A swift kick later and the assassin was on the asphalt. The driver of the other vehicle regained control and continued down the road. Jim hopped to his feet and dashed towards the woman's truck, which had been left on. He thrust it into drive and slammed on the accelerator. The tires screamed loudly and the truck veered left and right, unable to get traction on the slick road.
Two shots smashed through the window above and to the right of Jim's head, and then the vehicle grabbed the pavement and shot away.
What the Hell just happened-what should I do-am I being followed-are there others-what about-how did-
What in God's name is going on?!
Jim drove for hours, constantly peering at his rear view mirror, and checking the truck's gauges. He was familiar with most of the area he was driving in, and took many obscure, backroads at high speeds to attempt to lose anyone possibly pursuing him. He only stopped when the gas gauge lit up and pulled into a grungy little gas station.
A tinny sound came from inside the building playing "Only the Good Die Young" by Billy Joel. Jim walked in and handed the weasel-faced clerk behind the counter a $20 and went outside to fill the tank.
Jim K is a down-to-earth, slightly eccentric individual with a massive collection of flashlights and anything else light related, as evidenced from a ticket he received months earlier for an excessive lighting violation on his VW. He's the head of his own manufacturing firm, Rothran Gear Incorporated, where he manages the day-to-day operations of the company and it's associations with various OEM firms across the globe. The company produces tactical gear and go-bags for various law enforcement and military firms.
Finally in a less frenzied state, he unbuttoned his striped collared shirt and pulled out two mashed lumps of lead, stuck in a new vest he had decided to test for comfort earlier in the afternoon for possible use in some of the newer Rothran Gear product lines. Still shaken, he removed the vest and revealed two massive welts across his chest precisely where his heart was a short distance inward. He winced when he touched the sternum, then removed the now weakened vest and tossed it into a trash can close by.
Tank filled, he departed.
After settling his thoughts Jim stuck his hand into his soiled jacket and retrieved a small cell phone and speed dialed a number. A man answered on the other end.
"John Trotto."
"John? Man, I'm damn glad to hear your voice, you're not gonna believe this crap…"
"Did you drop another 25 pound object on one of your appendages?"
"I'm serious… Some woman tried to kill me with a silenced pistol while I was fixing my bu-"
"You're still driving that old clunker?!"
"John! Listen damn it! I was SHOT. You hear me? S-H-O-T. Fired upon with a silenced weapon."
- Silence -
"I'm listening…"
* * * *
The woman throws her Beretta across the road and curses. She kicks the dormant Volkswagen and yells in anger, then forcibly removes a small phone from her trench coat and dials a number.
"This is Sasha… I've got a problem, my vehicle is gone, the target stole it… Yes, I understand… I will be there…"
She clicks the phone off and tosses it into the engine compartment of the beetle and walks away.
Five minutes later the car explodes.
* * * *
"I'll catch the next plane out Jim, in the meantime, stay safe, don't get into another damn hole. I'll call you when I reach the airport."
"Thanks John…"
The rain had subsided and the night was reaching its climax. Jim clicked off the phone and shoves it back in his pocket, and continued driving down the wet road.
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Two
"Please fasten your seatbelts as we make our final approach and landing."
John Trotto buckled his seatbelt and continued work on his laptop.
"Please put your tray tables up and your seatback in its full and upright position, and turn off any and all electronic devices."
A flight attendant walked down the aisles and checked to make sure everyone followed the given directions.
"Sir, we are on our final approach and Federal Law mandates…"
John Trotto flashed a badge at her that read: AGENT JOHN TROTTO | CIA.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you sir, but please use your computer on your lap so as not to disturb the passenger in front of you."
John grumbled. The plane ride and service had been a complete joke. There was no food service, and no snacks were served since a person on board was deathly allergic to peanuts, and even the scent would trigger convulsions. On top of that, the cooling units in the airplane had a wire shorted by the last maintenance crew, so all the ice had melted and the drinks were warm.
Just leave me be and hurry up and land… Let me off this damn plane.
15 minutes later the plane landed, making the signature squeal and smoke of passenger planes as it made contact with the tarmac.
John finished up his work and packed up his machine. It had been a long flight from Washington to California, where he had agreed to meet Jim K. He had been briefed in detail over the phone about this woman assassin who tried to kill Jim while he was repairing his car. He had called a few contacts within the Central Intelligence Agency to dig up what they had on Jim, and any see if anyone had any record of female assassins, which are few and far between.
A half hour later John was standing outside the baggage terminal waiting for Jim to arrive in the black Toyota Tundra that he had stolen. He turned up about 5 minutes later and John entered the vehicle, tossing his large bag in the back seat.
"Jim."
"John."
"Long time no see Jim, I wish circumstance would have found us in a better situation."
Jim doesn't reply.
"You look rather ragged, let's head over to the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego and stay the night. We'll sort this out then. Pretty close shots there in the windows, you're lucky…"
John pulled out his PDA, hooked up the GPS system, and punched in the address for the hotel. The device mapped out its route and began dictating when the next turns should be.
"Fine." Jim replied.
Jim K drove through the night to reach California from Iowa, and is nearly mute due to a strong caffeine induced sleeplessness in order to not have to stop anywhere on the road. The conversation throughout the ride to the hotel is minimal. John pops open his laptop again and begins searching government databases with the license plate number of the car, which, expectedly, is registered to a rental car agency back in Iowa. He puts away all his equipment and watches the road.
An hour later the two men arrived at the hotel and checked in. They're escorted to the room by a bellhop, who waits a tentatively for a few seconds, expecting a tip that doesn't come, then leaves.
"Get some sleep, Jim. I'm going to unpack a few things and make a couple of calls."
Jim nodded and quickly fell into a light sleep, his body rather unsuccessfully trying to confound the effects of the remaining chemical sleeplessness.
4 hours later he woke up, groggy but significantly more rested than before.
John looked up away from his laptop and put a hand over the receiver of the phone.
"Good, you're awake! Now, while I finish things up here, please, take a shower. You look disheveled and smell worse than that."
Jim laughed wryly and went into the bathroom to wash himself off.
"Hello, Klaus?"
"Ja, I'm still here."
"Jim just woke up, told him to get in the shower."
"Ah, yes."
"Well, I'll give you a call again if we need anything, you can be ready at a moments notice, correct?"
"Of course John. Just let me know if you ever need anything. You're welcome to use some of our safehouses in Germany if you need to as well."
"Thanks Klaus. I'll keep you in mind."
John hung up the phone and turned off his laptop. He tossed himself into the bed Jim had been sleeping on, and turned on the TV. His suitcase is still sitting unopened on the other bed.
That evening at around 7PM John Trotto and Jim K sat down at the hotel restaurant, more at ease and happier than before. Jim had ordered a rather large Club Sandwich, and John some pasta in pesto sauce. The two were commenting on the quality of their meals in between bites. After their stomachs were filled the two sat back and talked over a beer about the events of the past few days.
"So, Jim, is there any reason why anyone would want to kill you, anyone with a vendetta, you offended someone, anything?"
"For God's sake John, you know me better than that. All I do is manage Rothran Gear day in and day out."
"Strange. There are some loons out there though. You didn't drop a 25 pound weight on someone else's hand, did you?"
Silence.
Jim had recently dropped a 25 pound piece of metal and mangled up his hand while in the shops of Rothran Gear.
"Not funny."
Suddenly two shots rang out into the restaurant, flying past Jim's head as he bottomed-up his beer. The restaurant screamed. He fell backwards in the chair and spilled what was left of his drink all over his upper body and face and coughed.
"ON THE FLOOR! NOW! EVERYBODY GET DOWN!" John screamed to the restaurant.
"Jim! C'mon, this way! Stay down."
Two more shots rang through the restaurant, bursting the walls into a brilliant explosion of plaster, wood, and insulation. The two men stayed their course towards the kitchen entrance, crawling beneath tables and chairs as much as they could.
Another shot flew past, this time above John's head, nicking a few hairs.
"poop! Too close! He knows where we're headed."
John scrambled under another table, pulled out a Walther PPK and yelled at people to clear the areas under the lights. He fired a few shots and downed the chandeliers, plunging the room into darkness lit only dimly by the lights from the kitchen doors and the sidewalk lamps outside the restaurant.
John grabbed Jim's shirt collar and brought his face in close.
"I need you to listen to me. New plan. The kitchen is lit up, and he'll see anyone go through there. I need for you, when I say so, to run for the exit and keep running towards the room. I'll be out of here two seconds after you."
"Got it."
"GO!"
Jim stumbled out from under the table and awkwardly ran towards the exit, his balance not yet attained. John followed precisely two seconds after, gun pointed out the restaurant windows looking any signs of the assassin's movements.
John caught up with Jim and barked directions to get to the room as fast as possible. The two ran for 3 minutes towards their suite and burst in, hoarse and frantic.
John rushed toward the suitcase and brokes apart the lock with a Leatherman tool, not having time to search for the keys. He unzipped it and flipped open the two halves, revealing a carefully arranged set of automatic weapons, pistols, ammunition, and other pieces of assorted tactical gear.
"I should have shown you this and set it up earlier, but I didn't think it would be necessary. Quickly, put on everything I give you."
John threw Jim a set of body armor, tactical vest, night vision goggles, holsters, 2 Walther P99s and extra magazines, and an Uzi with a few extra magazines as well.
Jim suited up and managed a small chuckle seeing that the tactical vest was a Rothran Gear product. He quickly shoved the extra magazines into the pockets of the vest, holstered the 2 P99s and slung the Uzi over his left shoulder.
John armed himself with body armor, a tactical vest, night vision goggles, holster, a Desert Eagle with extra magazines, and an MP5 Submachinegun with extra clips.
"You take the perimeter from the left side, I'll take the right."
John threw the suitcase into a corner, the remaining weapons and ammunition making a metallic clatter as they impacted one another.
They slipped on their night vision equipment and dashed out of the room, knowing that if the assassin knew they were at the hotel, he also knew what room they were in.
Glass shattered. The sliding glass window had just been shot and a firestorm of bullets pummeled the room, making series of dull thuds as they came in contact with the walls. John motioned to Jim to run around the side of the building toward the back of the room to flank the assailant.
Jim ran around the side of the building, creeping close to the walls and checking all angles through his night vision goggles. He reaches the corner and peaks around the side.
Nothing.
He looked around the area and saw no one in the vicinity.
He ran around the back of the building and met up with John again.
"Nothing."
"Nothing."
"Maybe he's gone? Past the tennis cour…" John is interrupted as the wooden siding of the hotel rooms bursts into splinters. The shrapnel pelted the vests and body armor to no avail.
"Christ! This guy is having an off day!" John yells as he runs towards the hotel tennis courts.
Jim took the left side of the four courts and ran down. He squinted through his goggles and saw a figure jump off the side of the balcony by the beach and start running down the sand. He glanced to the right and saw that John spotted the assassin as well, and was running in a fury towards the balcony. He leapt over it in a single bound and sprinted down the sandy slopes.
John laid good pursuit on the sniper, but suddenly lost him after he rounded a bend around part of the hotel's restaurant balcony. Agent Trotto paused temporarily to look around and get his bearings. A mistake.
The sniper saw his opportunity, hiding in a crevice under the balcony, just remote enough to not be able to be seen by night vision goggles. He had a the foul luck earlier of being attacked by an angry seagull before he fired a shot, and missed his last round by a few inches and hit the building instead. He stowed the sniper rifle and pulled out a silenced Beretta FS92 pistol, issued to him by his employer, and took aim. The target paused a few too many precious seconds.
He fired.
His employer was known to him only as Centigrade. Whether it was an individual, corporation, or any other entity was not known. He didn't ask questions.
The target yelled and fell onto the sand, clutching onto his arm and dropping.
He did, however, have previous encounters with this individual he was now finishing. A few times before, in Hawaii, this man had been assigned to an incident involving the deaths of a few prominent individuals, which he had been hired to eliminate. Agent Trotto and he had a history, both always narrowly escaping each other. He relished the idea of finally winning the game of cat and mouse.
He tossed the sniper rifle into the sand and walked out of under the balcony. He swiftly walked over to the downed man who aimed a Desert Eagle at him with his uninjured arm. He shot the gun out of his hand, breaking the fingers.
John roared in furied anguish.
The assassin raised his weapon, and took aim.
Jim had laid chase on John and the assassin, but hadn't caught up until he saw John writhing on the sand. Not sure where the shots had come from, he threw himself onto the ground next to a beam of the balcony and watched the events unfold. He saw the man emerge from under balcony and approach John. As soon as he was out of the man's peripheral vision he got up and stealthily crept behind him as he strode towards John.
When the assassin took aim at John's head, Jim yelled, firing a storm of bullets from his dual P99s at the man's back. The assassin arched backwards, and then fell off to the side.
Jim ran over to John and helped him up as he winced in visible pain from the arm wound.
"You alright?"
"Yeah. This thing stings like no other though… What took you so long?"
"Oh, you know, I was occupied removing one of those 25 pound objects that keep crushing my extremities."
Jim smiled and John let out a stifled laugh.
They crouched over the assassin's body and went over it looking for any papers, identification, anything that could possibly be useful. John Trotto knew the man from before as Cornelius Bulk, an alias of some sort, but his only known identity. Apparently he had succeeded in wiping himself from all US Databases, though they did have a file for him under the alias Bulk. They found nothing on the man aside from extra clips, a wallet, and a MagLite strapped next to his holster.
Agent Trotto walked along with Jim and headed back to the room. They walked in from the back over the shards of glass then cleaned John's wound and set the fingers. The bullet only deeply grazed the side of the arm, going straight through but not getting lodged inside the body. The fingers were bruised and of a deep purple.
John tended to himself in the bathroom; Jim set his fingers, and then packed the gun bag and other assorted gear that John had brought along. The two changed clothes, Jim borrowing an extra set from John. The tactical gear was put away, but they kept two pistols about them in the event of any occupational hazards and donned the body armor still atop an undershirt and covered by another T-Shirt.
They left the hotel thirty minutes later.
-------------------------------------------------
Chapter Three
Police responded to calls from a few concerned motorists about an incinerated car with charred objects scattered about its perimeter. When they arrived they found the carbonized remains of a 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, apparently destroyed by an explosion in the gas tank.
They also found a crumpled body off the side of the road, burned beyond recognition. Dental records indicated that it was the body of Jim K.
He was officially pronounced dead later that evening.
* * * *
A small black Ford Taurus left the parking garage of the Hotel Del Coronado. The woman driving it picked up a small phone and dialed a number.
"This is Sasha."
"You had me sleep with a man in order to get use of his services. I did as requested, and you idiots chose a guy who couldn't shoot the broadside of a barn! What the…"
"Yes, I realize this wouldn't have happened if I'd taken care of the target the first time…"
"Yes, the bomb is placed on the vehicle the two men were using, timed detonation."
She clicked the phone off and tossed it in the cup holder and continued driving into the night.
* * * *
Jim K and John Trotto left the hotel and walked toward the stolen black truck, suspect that it was the cause of their current state of affairs. John angrily cursed his stupidity since before he left the room and exclaimed that he "should have thought to check the damn thing for trackers beforehand."
John was right. Under the car, next to the muffler, was a small, insignificant looking black box fixed to the undercarriage. He had Jim rip it off due to his damaged arms, and with the top exposed they saw a green indicator verifying the uplink. He tossed the device onto the floor and jumped on it, smashing it into many shattered fragments of plastic and circuit board.
"That takes care of that, I did see one other thing further down though, let me take a look again."
John slid back down under the vehicle, from the front side this time and wriggled around in the parking lot grunge.
"Oh poop."
"What?" Jim replied.
"There's a timer here, connected to a small pack of C-4 hooked to the fuel line."
"Get the heck out of under there then, you fool!"
"Nah, it's alright, it still has 5 minutes left. I think we'd better be getting out of here and taking a taxi instead, though."
John struggled out from under the car with some difficulty; his fingers set inside metal and foam splints on his right hand, and a damaged arm on the left.
The two men walked out of the parking garage quickly, Jim dragging along the suitcase full of weaponry, both of them still clad in body armor and tactical vests.
John Trotto was a man of 24 years, and had known Jim for quite some time, the two having a long-standing relation since before John entered the government and Jim started Rothran Gear. The two didn't see each other in person very often, but conversed once or twice per month by phone, since their jobs usually kept them busy. John joined the US Army early on, and quickly rose through the ranks of Army Intelligence, which led him to the CIA. He was not the crème de la crème, but he certainly had a bright and promising future ahead of him in the agency. He already had some higher-level access permissions, and showed promise to most of his superiors.
The men arrived at a taxi-frequented road a block or two away from the hotel. Shortly after their departure from the garage a loud explosion was heard, followed by a dull thud and the wails of car alarms going off over the entire building. They signaled a driver of a signature taxi-yellow van, loaded their belongings into the vehicle, and requested to be driven to the airport.
"Turn the meter off and get there quickly," John ordered, "I'll pay you 100 dollars to get there the fastest way."
"Yes sir." The driver replied.
They arrived at the airport 45 minutes later, paid the man, and walked inside. In a restroom they removed their pistols and placed them inside the suitcase. John changed shirts to not have the ashen-gray stains of parking lot grunge showing.
John checked his bag at an American Airlines and showed identification for the proper markings to be placed on the bag for it not to be confiscated by TSA employees.
"One ticket to Dallas, TX please, and another to Munich, Germany, connecting through DFW."
"Ok Sir. These flights are full, but we can find you the seats you need." The clerk replied with a smile.
John smiled back and made the final arrangements for the flights, then departed with Jim to the security points.
Both removed all their metal items, but Jim repeatedly beeped as he passed through the scanners and was required to remove his shoes and be searched by baton. Angrily he did as instructed and the source of the problem was found to be a nail clipper he neglected to remove from his pocket, which the TSA goons promptly confiscated. He stormed out of the checkpoint towards the gate, John Trotto laughing loudly at his predicament as they left.
"So why am I going to Germany, exactly?" Jim inquired after his anger with the TSA subsided.
"I've got a few friends there who will take care of you until all of this can be sorted out."
"Why can't I go to someplace else in the United States?"
"Because right now, we don't know who's coming after you, and it's unlikely they'll be able to track the inner circles of who I'm sending you to."
"And who's that?"
"A man named Klaus Stoetzel. He's an old friend of mine, son of an ex-KGB. He's a good egg and very well connected, don't worry."
The plane did not arrive for another half an hour, so they headed up to the American Airlines Admiral's Club, drank, and munched away the day's stresses on multiple cups full of pretzels. John popped open his laptop and tried hooking up to the US Government Intranet to no avail. He called his supervisor in Langley and was taken aback by what was to come.
His superior, Paul Gautier, screamed at him over the phone, and forcibly informed him that he was no longer part of the Central Intelligence Agency and all his accesses were either now revoked or being revoked.
"YOU WERE NOT SUPPOSED TO DELVE INTO MATTERS WITHOUT PRIOR CONSENT FROM ME!" Paul roared.
"But I've got the clearance to…"
"NO YOU DON'T! NOT ANYMORE!"
"What?"
"YOU'RE GONE TROTTO! THAT'S IT, ALL YOUR PRIVILEGES HAVE BEEN REVOKED."
"Why the hell is that?"
"You're delving too deep in matters that don't concern you. Go home John Trotto."
And with that Paul Gautier hung up.
John slumped back into his chair and Jim looked over at him concerned, having heard the general conversation through the screams the vibrated out of the speaker of the John's Nokia cell phone.
"What happened."
"Hell if I know. I've apparently lost all my security clearances and my job, they told me to go home…"
"Why?"
"Like I said Jim, I don't know! I don't know…"
John winced, aware of the pain in his arm again.
"You alright?"
"Yes, fine Jim, just peachy." John replied in a caustic tone.
He reached over to the chair next to him and grabbed his IBM Thinkpad laptop. He popped open the keyboard, which gave him access to all the internal components. He ripped out a small plastic device hooked up to the green circuit board at the bottom of the case, tossed it on the floor, and ground it into oblivion with the heel of his shoe.
"What was that?" Jim inquired.
"A tracker for this machine, in case it gets lost. It also gives our headquarters the ability to remotely access and delete system files. I've got a bad feeling about this, and don't want either of those happening."
Paul Gautier was one of his few superiors that never quite liked him. However, until now, he was never openly hostile. There was reason for John to be suspicious of him, though.
John shook his head in frustration, got up, and walked over to the front counter to change his flight. He handed the woman at the counter his credentials and presented the record locators and flight numbers required and asked for his flight to be changed to the same one as Jim's and requested a seat next to his. The woman cheerily complied, flashing her fake, semi permanent smile at him when she finished.
He walked back to where he was sitting with Jim, grabbing another two cups of pretzels on his was back.
"So what's the deal?"
He set down a cup of pretzels in front of Jim.
"Thanks, but…"
"I changed my flight. I'm going with you to Germany. I was going to stop by Dallas and go to a military hospital where I had a few buddies, but I'd prefer to stay clear of any incoming bureaucratic trains that might be headed in my direction for the time being…"
"Alright."
John grabbed his cup of pretzels, examined it without much thought, and started peckishly eating them one by one.
"Tell me more about this Cornelius Bulk guy." Jim requested, after a few minutes silence.
"He's just an assassin for hire that I had a few run-ins with. He's typically a very sharp shooter, and gruesomely professional at what he does. We got incredibly lucky earlier."
"Know anything else?"
"Not that I can tell you."
"Why's that? You're out of the CIA now, have you got anything to lose by helping me figure out who's after me?"
"No, I suppose not…" John sighed. "He's killed many prominent individuals, and I tracked him down to Hawaii at one point. He's also gotten a couple of people caught in the crossfire, which made a PR mess for everyone at the office… You may remember names on the news such as Brad Frost, Jeremy Baxton, Bill Blaine, among a handful of other individuals. Those people were all chalked up to random hate crimes, but they were really just caught in the way of this Bulk guy as he was pouncing towards the jugular of his target."
"Really?"
"Yep…"
"Jim, if I knew that, so would you. Right now, I'm really, really upset. I'm going to give Klaus a call and let me know we're on our way, and then we'll get out of here."
"Alright. Sorry."
John grabs the phone on the table next to him and dials an international number to Germany.
"Stoetzel... Was?" a man answered in German.
"Hey Klaus, this is John."
"Oh, hello John… Why are you calling me at 5 in the morning?"
"Klaus, I'm getting on a plane to go to Frankfurt, Flight number 70 with American Airlines. I'll be there in about 15 hours."
"You don't waste any time, do you John? I'll see you tonight around 2000, then."
"Thanks Klaus… Sorry about the early wake up, get some sleep."
"No problem John, have a good flight."
John hung up and motioned to Jim to get up. He finished his cup of pretzels and walked to the gate some three minutes away from the club. They arrived as Group One was being called to board the plane. They passed through the ticket verification machine, then boarded the aircraft.
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