The Cyclops Revenge Page 19

  The Watcher activated another app on his phone. An image appeared on the screen. The image showed two men, Jason Rodgers and the occupant of the house, standing in the foyer, talking. The old house had been fitted with several tiny cameras, allowing The Watcher a view of what was happening.

  Every possible precaution had been taken to ensure The Watcher could monitor Rodgers actions. But now he was inside with a former killer. If things went south, The Watcher would rush in. But he also knew the amount of time it would take to arrive inside was a lifetime compared to how quickly one man could kill another. The house had been searched this morning. They’d found no weapons, even the utensils had been removed from the kitchen. The body language of both men was tense and rigid.

  The Watcher lit a cigarette, keeping it below the level of the dashboard. Every twenty seconds, he would lift it and give a long pull, causing the tip to glow a deep orange.

  Waiting … and watching was a bitch.

  With nothing else to do but wait, The Watcher let his mind drift back to the day he’d first met Delilah Hussein.

  He’d sat on the soft sofa in the modest house in al-Qiza, Syria. One of the guards nudged him, forcing him to stand. Hussein asked why he wanted to work for her organization.

  “I have many skills to offer you and your organization,” he replied.

  “I was intrigued by your request for a meeting. I do not normally grant such requests.”

  “But you agreed to it,” The Watcher said.

  “Yes.”

  “Because I mentioned the name.”

  “Yes, the word. How did you come by this word?”

  “Hammon. It is a very interesting word, isn’t it?” The Watcher teased. “It is a variation on the spelling of Amun, the Egyptian god, meaning ‘hidden one.’ The lore is that he created himself, then his surroundings. But you and I know it means something else, doesn’t it?”

  “Enlighten me,” Hussein replied evenly. The Watcher detected a hint of alarm in her voice.

  “Hammon is your secret contact. The Hidden One within the American intelligence community. He provided your funding for the failed operation in Newport News. He wanted to overthrow the administration. He is your mole.”

  Hussein shrugged and tried deflect the comment. “What makes you think I need any more people in my outfit?”

  The Watcher knew he had struck a nerve. “You need someone like me. You do not have people with my talents.”

  “What talents?”

  “I can get inside the United States. You have an operation planned there. But you need someone on American soil who can move around without arousing suspicion. Someone who looks like a Westerner and not like a terrorist. I can follow Jason Rodgers. I am an American citizen. I will not arouse suspicion.”

  Hussein’s eyes widened for an instant. The surprise was unmistakable. It dissolved quickly. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “I know about the assassination attempts on the presidents one year ago. They failed. You lost your daughter, killed by the pharmacist. Your son was taken. You want revenge on America … and Rodgers. I can help you get it.”

  Hussein stared at him for a long minute. Her eyes bore into him.

  “I admit to nothing. But just to humor you, tell me how you know this.”

  “You need money. That’s why you are in Syria. You are arranging financing through our friends in Moscow. I can get you more. And I can help you get your revenge.”

  With this last statement, The Watcher motioned to one of the guards who was holding the items confiscated from his person. “The slip of paper, please, that was in my pocket.”

  The guard handed him a folded piece of white paper. He placed it on the coffee table. Hussein signaled to another man to hand it to her. “What is this?”

  “A numbered account in Zurich. It is yours. If you hire me. With more than $50 million in it, it will help you finance your operation. And I will help you complete your mission. That’s just the first installment. A second will be dispersed on my authorization once your cargo has been delivered to the United States.”

  The Watcher had watched Hussein freeze, the astonishment in her eyes highlighted by fear. He had her, he remembered thinking.

  His handlers knew that Hussein was arranging for something to be delivered to America. They did not know what it was. But just the fact that he knew of the delivery made him credible.

  “Why are you trying to help us?”

  Finally, an admission, he thought.

  “I was once a colleague of Hammon’s. He betrayed me. I, too, want revenge. This is how I will get it. My compatriots also want to strike a blow at the infidels. But we also want something from you as well.”

  “What is that?”

  “We want you to kill Hammon. He is a threat. His resolve is weak. He is trying to sabotage your mission.”

  “Who are your compatriots?” Hussein demanded.

  “Jabhat Fatah al-Sham.”

  Hussein nodded her approval. Jabhat Fatah al-Sham had changed their name from Jabhat al-Nusra many months ago, severing all ties with al-Qaeda. They no longer took direction from any entity. Hussein had heard and read that they were weary of maintaining an allegiance with al-Qaeda, afraid that an association with the weakened entity would prevent them from recruiting jihadists into the fold. Suspicion of al-Qaeda’s international focus also contributed to their decision, she remembered.

  “You have proof of this?” she asked.

  The Watcher nodded. He handed her another slip of paper. “This is the private cell number for Mostafa Mahamed, one of JFS’s leaders. He will verify my allegiance.”

  Hussein’s lips curved into a sardonic smile. “You will need to show us that you are worthy,” Hussein had replied. “Then we might do business.”

  And so it began, he thought.

  Over the ensuing few months, The Watcher had demonstrated his trustworthiness to Delilah Hussein and her team. Ten months ago, he had carried out various missions, including killing two enemies of The Simoon.

  Now, the man in the dark suit smiled as he jettisoned a plume of blue smoke through his nostrils. His eyes studied the quiet, sunlit, Newport News street before him, refocusing and relegating his memory to the past.

  The pharmacist’s success was crucial to The Watcher’s mission and his handlers. The Watcher’s respect and admiration for the pharmacist had grown over these past months. Jason Rodgers was a man of principle and justice.

  The Watcher inhaled through his nose and let the smoke out slowly through pursed lips.

  Time to move! I can’t be too far away if things go south!

  After checking his watch, The Watcher exited the Caddy, crossed the street, and ducked into the space between houses. In the backyard, he climbed the steps and made his way to the back door. He peered through the dirty glass, looking and listening. It was then that the image of Jason Rodgers and the other man disappeared. The phone went dark.

  They were inside now, standing in the tiny foyer.

  Jason stared into the shrunken demonic face of Tattoo Man.

  He had no recollection of pulling it from his belt. It had been an instinctive, automatic action. The Smith and Wesson was leveled at the man who’d tried to kill him in the cell in the Williamsburg Regional Jail.

  “You’ve come to pick up the keys.”

  It was a statement holding no malice or anxiety, no hidden meaning. He was simply acknowledging a business transaction.

  Tattoo Man retreated, motioning for Jason to move deeper into the dwelling. “You can put that away. I have no desire to harm you. My job is to simply make sure you get these.”

  Reaching into his trouser pocket, he produced a keychain from which three keys dangled. One appeared to be to a car key with a large black bow adorned with push buttons for unlocking and locking the doors. The other two keys were silver with flat bows.

  Tattoo Man’s massive bulk had shrunk since their encounter in Williamsburg. He wore a wife-beater t-s
hirt and faded jeans over a pair of black running shoes. His head was still clean shaven displaying the incensed drawing of a dragon with drops of blood suspended between the eyes.

  “If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to keep my friend here as part of the conversation,” Jason said, waggling the Smith and Wesson.

  “Whatever.”

  Keeping a safe distance, Jason inched farther into the house. Tattoo Man retreated into the same living area where Winstead had drawn his last breath. Jason waggled the gun again.

  “Stop!” Jason demanded.

  Jason glanced around, looking for signs of danger. The tiny foyer split the front of the house into an open living area and dining room. The layout had not changed. The living room was small with distressed, dark, hardwood floors and dotted with three throw rugs on which sat a nondescript sofa and a well-worn recliner. The third rug, tattered and frayed, was spread across the small stretch of hardwood leading from the foyer to the living room.

  The dining room also appeared the same. He couldn’t be sure. Jason had a hard time remembering. The last time he was here he was so focused on its occupant, Douglas Winstead, he had not given the décor much notice. The distressed hardwood from the living room ran under a small, rickety dining room table. Hanging from the ceiling was a heavy, lead crystal chandelier, with dangling arrow-like pieces of glass. The piece was impressive but out of place in this shithole. Jason did not remember it.

  “You alone?” Jason asked.

  “Yeah, are you?”

  Jason smiled. “It’s just me. What happened to you? We have unfinished business. Show me the rest of the house,” he demanded.

  At gunpoint, Tattoo Man led Jason through the small, two-story structure. Ten minutes later, satisfied they were in fact the only people in the house, they returned downstairs.

  “I told you. I don’t want any trouble. I’m outta the racket,” Tattoo Man declared at the foot of the stairs.

  “I don’t remember the chandelier being here,” Jason observed.

  Tattoo Man looked at the glass monstrosity. “What the fuck kinda question is that? You from Home and Garden Magazine? I’ve been here a couple of weeks. It was here when I got here. If you want to buy the place, talk to somebody else.”

  “Shut up,” Jason said

  Tattoo Man showed Jason his hands. “I just want to get this over with. I don’t want no trouble.”

  His words sounded stilted. His jaw moved in an unnatural fashion when he spoke.

  “You’ve lost weight. Stopped working out and using the juice?”

  Tattoo Man spread his arms, showing Jason his shrunken physique. “This is all your doing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You shattered my jaw, asshole. Remember? After you kicked my ass in jail, I was taken to Williamsburg Community. The left side of my face had been shattered. The doc said there were too many pieces to put back together.” He ran his fingers along his jaw. “Had to have three surgeries. I got a titanium rod in there now. I set off metal detectors. I lost forty pounds, never got it back. Haven’t eaten right since. Still trying to pay off the doctor bills. That’s why I agreed to give you these keys. They’re paying me. Not that I had much of a choice.”

  Jason smirked. “You’re still getting paid to deal with me, huh? First, you tried to off me. Now, you’re delivering keys. Don’t expect sympathy.”

  “I guess I’d be feeling the same way if I was you.”

  “Let’s get down to business,” Jason commanded.

  “Let’s go in the living room.”

  Tattoo Man led Jason into the small sitting area. The furniture had changed. It was still inexpensive second-hand stuff but arranged much the same as before. Jason’s eye went to the window of the side wall.

  Of course, the glass had been replaced. But Jason’s mind couldn’t repress images of flying glass, bone, and blood. He paused and collected himself.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Tattoo Man asked. “You look like you seen a ghost”

  Jason motioned for the assassin to move to the sofa as Jason moved to the threadbare recliner in the corner.

  “A man was killed in this very room.” Jason said. The recliner was in about the same spot he and Walter Waterhouse had found the false panel in the floor. “Yeah, I am seeing ghosts.”

  “Do you mind?” Tattoo Man said, stopping Jason’s descent and pointing at the chair. “I’m more comfortable there. It’s better for my back.”

  Jason wrinkled his lips and thought for a moment. “Fine.” Jason backed away and let him have the seat.

  Jason sat across from him on the far-right end of the sofa, not in line of sight of the window.

  The cushions were shot. He sank farther than anticipated. He held the gun in his right hand, rested the stock on his knee, and trained it on his host.

  “I got to take a piss.” Tattoo Man started to rise.

  “Stop right there! Sit down! You can urinate when I leave.”

  Tattoo Man sat back down. His eyes riveted on the handgun.

  “So, William Luther,” Jason said. “Let’s talk.”

  “You know my name?” Luther replied with surprise. He shook his head. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Where you been? I tried to track you down. But I could never find you. Having your name would have helped. Why are you not in prison, William Luther?”

  “You just said my name. So how did you get it?”

  Jason was unable to locate Luther’s name in the years since the tattooed Luther had attacked him. Every discreet inquiry had been met by a dead end. He’d spent most of his efforts tracking Clyde Hutton, the man responsible for hiring Luther, and planning the guard’s demise. He wanted to extract Luther’s name from Hutton. Luther had been a secondary issue … until now.

  “It was given to me by a friend of yours. Clyde Hutton.”

  “The guard at the jail?”

  Jason nodded. “He gave it to me last night, about ten seconds before he died.” Jason raised the weapon and pointed it center mass at Luther’s chest.

  “I was in jail. Spent a year at Greensville,” Luther croaked.

  “I never read about it in the papers.”

  “I had a good lawyer. I pled it out. Part of the deal was that the agreement was sealed. I didn’t want no one coming after me.”

  “Only a year?”

  “It would have been longer, but like I said, I had a good lawyer. Cut a deal with the Commonwealth’s attorney. They wanted a name. I gave it to them.”

  “Who’s name?”

  “Clyde Hutton.” Luther licked his dry lips and swallowed hard. “You kill him?”

  Jason smiled but did not reply.

  “You gonna kill me?” Luther said in a near whisper.

  “You certainly deserve it.”

  “Life’s a bitch. Then you marry one,” Luther quipped, regaining some composure.

  “Do you even know why you were hired to kill me?”

  “No, and I don’t give a shit. The money was good. That’s all I know.”

  “How many folks have you killed for money?”

  “More than one, less than five. Can’t say I recall. Don’t matter much anymore. I’m outta the business. Don’t have the body or the nerves for it.”

  Jason could not let the issue of the money out of his head. The fact that these guys could kill someone for any sum of money rankled him. “How much was I worth?”

  Luther smirked and shrugged. “Why not? Ten large … and I never got pinched ’til I failed to off you!” The former killer smiled with a warped sense of pride.

  “I’m worth a lot more than that. I ought to shoot you just for being an idiot.”

  “Well do it if you’re gonna do it.”

  “Who hired you?”

  “Hutton did.”

  “Who was he working for?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Luther’s right hand slipped between his thigh and the arm of the chair.

  “Hands on your knee
s. Now!”

  Luther lifted his hand and showed his palms. “Easy man. It’s cool. I don’t want no trouble, I told you.” He lowered a hand onto each knee.

  “Who are you working for now?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Jason aimed the weapon at the drop of tattooed blood between Luther’s eyes. “Bullshit!”

  Shifting the gun from his right to left hand, Jason reached into the zippered breast pocket of his North Face jacket and removed a long cylinder. He screwed it onto the barrel of the weapon. Luther’s eyes widened.

  “I don’t know his name. It’s a dude. Tall, maybe six-two. Wore a dark suit and a hat. Drove a black Caddy. I met him two weeks ago. He showed up with the keys and the cash. Said that you would be by within the next couple of weeks to get them. I just had to make sure you got them. Matter of fact, he called me yesterday to tell me you’d be by today.”

  Jason hesitated. Hutton, and now Luther, had mentioned the man in the dark suit with the black hat. The man in the ambulance flashing a badge wore a black fedora.

  “You still with me, Chief?” Luther demanded, seeing Jason’s eyes become unfocused.

  “How … how much money?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Jason lowered the weapon and fired.

  From the bushes, The Watcher tapped the cursed phone against his leg, trying to get the image from inside the house back on his screen. The two men had approached the back door, nearly catching him by surprise. He spied William Luther making his way into the kitchen. The Watcher scampered behind some overgrown bushes for cover as the back door opened.

  Luther had come outside and descended two steps, allowing Jason Rodgers a look. Apparently satisfied, they retreated inside once again. The Watcher remained out of sight for several minutes, fiddling with the malfunctioning phone.

  Unable to retrieve the closed-circuit feeds, he had moved again to the back door. He thought he heard a muffled report, a thump, followed by a sharp, surprised exclamation.

  “For chrissake,” Luther exclaimed, “I told you, chill out.”

  A round had ripped through the lower front of the recliner between Luther’s legs. Luther slithered higher into the chair, using his arms to elevate his body. A small plume of stuffing erupted from the hole and still floated about from the shot, which had occurred thirty seconds before.