Near the Chinati Mountains, Texas
Patience. That was true power. And right now, the assassin with the Barrett MK 22 sniper rifle was the most powerful man in the world. He would bide his time.
From a thousand yards away, he watched a small group of men sidle across the scrub flats below in search of big game. They were spread out and slow-moving, but nothing in their movement suggested forethought. Nor patience. They were overconfident, hasty, and entirely out of their element. The man standing in the middle of the pack was their leader, and more importantly, the assassin’s mark: former President Richard S. Turner.
At this distance, he looked pitifully small. Insignificant. And with a six-man security team surrounding him, he nearly disappeared altogether. That would make things more difficult. The assassin scanned the horizon and then checked his watch. Dusk was upon them, and the light was fading fast. Soon, it would be dark.
He reacquired Turner in the scope and checked his range finder. It was closer to eleven hundred yards. But it was still doable—if there was time.
The cold desert wind was feral, and he felt its bite on his cheeks. The weather could be unforgiving in February, even in south Texas. A storm had blown in the day before, leaving a white dusting of snow that mottled the hills’ desert scrub and rocky outcroppings. Before night’s end, the temperature would drop below freezing again.
There was a slight shift in the wind, as it no longer blew directly into his face. He quickly calculated its influence in his head and made the proper adjustments to the scope.
The group of men below slowed down in unison and stopped. They remained still, except for the men on the perimeter. They were twitchy, their heads on a swivel as they scanned their surroundings, searching for a threat like herd animals catching the scent of a nearby predator. But they’d never spot him.
The sun was sitting low in the sky and directly behind him. There would be no visible sun flare off his scope, and his ghillie suit rendered him invisible in the surrounding scrub. As far as Turner’s security team was concerned, he didn’t exist—not even as a hypothetical threat. These men weren’t Secret Service. Turner had lost that privilege when he’d been impeached and removed from office nearly three months prior. No. These men were woefully inadequate, though they were likely the best mercs money could buy. Too bad they would be out of a job by tomorrow morning.
The sage rustled around him; the wind hummed. Precious minutes passed, and the sun dipped even further on the horizon. And yet, the assassin didn’t move.
He watched the small group of men below flounder with indecision. Hesitate, as if they were unable to move forward. Or unwilling. Either way, there was no clear shot at the former president. At least not until that monster axis deer came trotting out of the arroyo some two hundred yards to the south. It had a massive lyre-shaped rack that if it wasn’t the state record likely threatened it. Impressive. But it was hardly worth noting for the assassin. It didn’t interest him. President Turner, stepping from the pack and taking point, did.
He took several long strides forward, hurried and overzealous, sensing the big moment. His security detail remained back, likely ordered by Turner to stay put. Another mistake, and it was about to be his last. This was the moment the assassin had been waiting for—a clear shot.
The assassin watched Turner raise his rifle as he remained zeroed in on him. It was primal, the hunter preying on the unaware. Only Turner didn’t know he was the prey.
The assassin readied himself, emptying his mind of all distractions, his form flawless. He took three deep breaths, emptying his lungs of air on the last exhale before he began the slow squeeze of the trigger. He was now committed to the shot. But then the unexpected happened. About two-thirds of the distance to President Turner, the assassin spotted a tremendous gust of wind blasting through the desert sage, like ocean waves crashing on a rocky shore. He released the tension on the trigger and aborted the shot. No joy.
In that same instant, the president fired his rifle. The deer flinched from the impact, his legs buckling before he steadied himself. He took several long strides toward the south, deceptively strong and looking like Turner had missed him completely. The buck had almost made it back to the safety of the arroyo before he slowed, staggered, and collapsed at its edge.
The assassin took a deep breath and watched the events unfold with little interest. He simply waited.
As soon as Turner lowered the rifle, confident that the monster buck was down, his security detail rushed forward and joined him in his celebration. They whooped, hollered, and passed around high fives like he had just made a half-court buzzer-beater in the NBA Finals. The irony that they were celebrating a simple two-hundred-yard shot at an axis deer was not lost on the assassin. But his motivation lay elsewhere. He had come here to put an end to the former president.
He watched Turner and his men walk over to the downed animal, ensuring it was dead. Once satisfied, one of his men made a quick phone call. They would need help. A man of Turner’s stature didn’t dirty his hands field dressing an animal. Nor was he going to carry it out. Instead, he waited for his help to arrive and posed for pictures with his prize trophy buck while his security team kept watch. A true politician, Turner never missed an opportunity for a photo.
The opportunity for the assassin, however, had passed. It was too dark now, a disappointment to be sure.
He continued to watch Turner’s backup detail arrive in two side-by-side UTVs. One returned to the hunting lodge with President Turner and his security team, while the other remained behind with a couple of men to field dress the deer.
After they finished and drove away, the assassin stood up, packed his gear, and began making his way through the cold Texas desert. It was several miles back to the lodge, with little more than starlight to guide his way. It would take him the better part of an hour to reach it. But no matter. The night was young, and he was a patient man.
Sotol Mesa Ranch, Texas
Richard Turner was grinning like the Cheshire cat. It had been a good night, one that was sorely needed. Surviving three months of media hell hadn’t been easy. The accusations, the impeachment, the Senate trial, and his eventual removal from office were each just another dagger in the back.
Turner stood at the black granite-topped bar and poured himself another bourbon. Stagg. Four fingers. Damn the ice. He offered a silent toast to Julius Caesar and slammed back the fiery liquor. It was smooth and refined, yet burned just as much on the way down as his usual go-to, Jim Beam.
Turner took a moment to look around and soak in the moment. The main lodge was the epitome of luxury in the desert country of southwest Texas. It was a bit rustic for his liking, but all in all, it was acceptable. The ranch-style lodge was two stories, with mesquite open beam ceilings and large, open expanses of colored stone floors. The grand room was furnished with deep, supple leather sofas and oversized armchairs that you could sink into until you disappeared altogether. But the room’s main focal point was its massive, two-story stone fireplace, made of native limestone from the surrounding hills. That’s where most of his men gathered now, enjoying some camaraderie and a few drinks with the other team members.
Turner poured another drink and lifted his rocks glass to toast his security detail. “Here’s to a successful hunt!”
The men responded with a raucous cheer, offered their glasses in a toast, and slammed down another round.
“By-god, I couldn’t have done it without you guys.” His baritone voice was syrupy and rumbled deep from in his chest. “Here’s to the best damn security team I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. And to Tom—our host and hunting guide that made it all possible! Thank you for your loyalty.”
There was another roar of approval, followed by a few clinks of glasses before they downed their drinks. Then somebody shouted, “Being well paid didn’t hurt, either!”
The room exploded into laughter, the liquor lubricating their typically tight-lipped and rigid sensibilities.
But Turner was a charming man. He was as smooth as the liquor he drank, and a lifetime in politics made him as pliable and gracious as any given moment required. He guffawed and pointed his glass at the young man who’d spoken up, winking at him. “And smart, too! I like that!”
Turner poured himself another drink, then made his way across the room. He felt all eyes on him; once again, he was the center of attention. What a day! He glad-handed a few of the men as he passed by before settling into a conversation with his host and owner of the ranch, Tom Torres.
“Good to see you, Mr. President. I hope you are enjoying yourself this evening.”
Turner smiled at that. Few people addressed him by his former title anymore. Evidently, presidents removed from office weren’t afforded that courtesy. “I’m having a wonderful time, Tom. And by-god, I sure owe you. Thanks for allowing me to lease your ranch out for a couple of weeks. I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.” Tom clasped his hands behind his back, watching the other guests mingle as if they were nothing more than corporate employees partaking in some weekend retreat. Then his face lit up as he suddenly remembered something. “By the way, I found an official Safari Club International measurer over in Fort Davis. It’s about a two-hour drive from here. I can take you over there tomorrow.”
Turner clapped Tom on the back, laughing a bit too loudly. “Yes, sir! You should have seen it, Tom. Hot damn! It was one hell of a shot! Hit that huge buck center mass on a dead run. Five hundred yards. Maybe more!”
Tom simply nodded. He didn’t bother to correct him. He likely had heard it all before. Hunting camps were full of such tall tales. Yet he said nothing. Turner appreciated that about him.
The man of the hour took another swig of his bourbon and felt the warm rush of liquid fuel his confidence. Damn! It’s been a long time since I felt this good. An image of Elizabeth popped into his head, but he quickly put it aside, drowning it with another gulp of liquor. The last he heard, she was back home with her family in Atlanta, filing papers for a divorce. Sad, that. She had been steady throughout the years. Loyal. Even if she was a little too high-strung and constantly nagging him. Then again, who needs her?
Turner admired all the trophy heads mounted high on the walls: whitetail deer, bighorn sheep, pronghorns, mule deer, blackbuck, and even a javelina. He pictured his trophy axis deer taking its rightful place amongst the elite.
It was good, feeling important again. But he could feel the liquor kicking in, the strong buzz having quickly turned to unsteadiness. He decided he’d had enough. Maybe he would head back to his suite and call Elizabeth. Perhaps she would reconsider—beg him to take her back.
“Well, Tom. I think I’m going to call it a night,” he announced, his Texas drawl growing more prominent. “It’s been one helluva day.”
“Yes, sir. Sleep well.”
Richard Turner shook Tom’s hand, nodded once, and quietly slipped away from the party. Nobody noticed.
The assassin had little trouble tracking the UTVs back to the main lodge, though they quickly outpaced him. Even if he had lost their trail, the ranch’s main lodge shone brightly on the dark plains of west Texas, like an ocean liner lost on the open sea.
Once within viewing distance of the covered porch, he skirted the perimeter lights, slipped through the pecan trees, and made his way to the northwest side of the building. There, he found the window to Turner’s private suite. He quickly cut out an opening in the glass, reached in, and unlatched it. He slipped in effortlessly. Silently.
The room was warm. Comfortable. And completely dark. It was perfect. The assassin slipped along the walls like black ink. Intrusive, violating, and always seeking the path of least resistance. When necessary, he forged new paths. Adapted. Of course, as much could be said of his original plan. A long-distance sniper shot was but one way to dispose of the former president. There were other alternatives.
He stopped and allowed his senses to take in the surroundings, then concentrated. The room was old and reeked of musty wood and stale cigar smoke. Outside the window, he could hear the evening wind brush through the trees, their branches scratching the worn clay tiles of the roof. But inside, there was nothing. The room ached with silence.
Down the hall in the grand room, drunken men celebrated, polluting the air with a cacophony of white noise. Their laughter was sophomoric, their chatter nonsensical, and they droned on incessantly. They were no doubt celebrating Turner’s successful hunt. So be it. He would allow Turner this one moment. Soon, the party would end, and Turner would return to his room.
Now, it was just a simple matter of waiting him out. The assassin stood vigil behind the door, preparing to ambush him. He would drive a knife into the base of Turner’s skull, severing his spinal cord and rendering him as useless as a marionette with its strings cut. The man would be paralyzed, and his heart would stop beating. In less than four minutes, his brain would become oxygen deprived and would shut down soon after. It would be hours before they discovered his body. By that time, the assassin would be long gone.
He wasn’t sure how long he would have to wait. It didn’t matter. He would remain disciplined. Patient. Unmoving. Then he heard the deep Texan drawl of the former president. His voice was distinct and too loud to ignore. There was the roar of laughter, and then, slowly, the din of polite conversation returned. He concentrated on listening for footfalls down the hall—the telltale sign of someone approaching. Instead, he was startled by a voice from behind him.
"It doesn’t have to be this way.”
The assassin spun around and, in one fluid movement, threw a knife at the source of the sound. The room was dark, but his eyes had adjusted to the low light and watched the murky shadow of an intruder slip to the side, clear of the double-edged knife. It drove into the far wall with a thud. He threw two more. The intruder turned sideways, causing the first to miss by a hair’s width, then ducked the second. Incredible!
The assassin was stunned but hardly disappointed. The throwing knives were not intended to be lethal. They were nothing more than a distraction.
The intruder said, “You can just leave. My fight isn’t with you.” A man’s voice.
The assassin hesitated. Blinked. He eased his head to the side and contemplated the oddity before him. How did he not see this man earlier? Hear him. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, his voice breathy, raspy. It had been weeks since he had spoken.
The stranger ignored the question. He didn’t move. He paused, then said, “You don’t have to die.” His voice was calm and collected, supremely confident. It wasn’t meant as a threat. This man was a killer.
And delusional. The assassin remained patient and studied his opponent for any signs of weakness. Even in the room’s pitch darkness, he could see the man’s expressions as clearly as if it were midday. He was standing next to the antique desk, his arms resting comfortably at his sides. How apropos—two fighters squaring off in the scrublands of Texas as if it were high noon in an old B movie.
“Very generous,” the assassin said. “I wouldn’t have offered you the same consideration.” He gestured toward the window with the sweep of his hand. He could see the man follow the motion of his arm, wary of an unknown threat. But that had been his intent. It was a sleight of hand, for he held the last of his knives in the other. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled them both at the stranger, one high, the other low. There was no way he could elude both of them. Yet somehow, he did. He allowed the first to slip by and then plucked the other spinning blade clean out of the air.
Impossible! This was no ordinary contract killer. “You’re from the Darkwater Program. Who are you?” he repeated. “Zulu? Vapor?” When there was no answer, he said, “I’m Kronos. But you probably already know that. They sent you to eliminate me, didn’t they?”
Again, silence.
The assassin called Kronos refused to waste any more time dwelling on it. Instead, he took advantage of the momentary distraction. He drew the combat knife from his vest and charged the man. Kronos was faster than the intruder could ever have imagined, and he used it to his advantage, closing the distance between them before he could react. He thrust the knife at the intruder’s chest with his right hand, center mass, but the man pivoted his body and used his left arm to push the knife wide. He followed with an open hand and drove his fingers into Kronos’s eye. The assassin yelped, jerked his head back, and instinctively stepped out of arm’s reach. The intruder’s reflexes were impressive.
Kronos dabbed at his wound and felt the trickle of blood where the soft tissue around his eye had been cut, but his cybernetic implant had been undamaged. Again, the assassin was dumbfounded. He stood there, blinking, trying to assess the situation. This wouldn’t be easy.
Kronos lunged forward again, first feigning left, then switching to the right at the last moment. The knife caught the man’s left shoulder, cutting deep and hurting him. It was deeply satisfying for the assassin, though it was fleeting. The intruder countered immediately. With his right arm, the man drove his elbow into Kronos’s solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs, and then struck him in the temple with an open hand, stunning him. Before he could respond, the intruder grabbed his hand and twisted his thumb back until it broke. Kronos had no choice but to relinquish his grip on the knife and drop it.
The stranger rolled his wounded shoulder, testing it, but it was no worse for wear. He kicked the knife away. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with fire. “Stop. It’s over. Just leave. Now.” He clipped each word, snapping them off like bites of an apple.
Kronos had to laugh. Leave? Not likely. It was over, all right. But not for him. The assassin grabbed a heavy glass paperweight from the desk and hurled it at the intruder from point-blank range. The man tried to avoid it, but it struck him in the back and caused him to stumble. Kronos took advantage of the distraction, and as the man turned back around to face him, he grabbed him by the throat—and squeezed it like a tube of toothpaste.
The stranger struggled—tried to break free—and almost succeeded. Kronos’s broken thumb on the right hand made it difficult to grapple. So he lifted him off the ground with the other hand, like he was merely hanging a coat in the closet. The intruder’s face immediately turned red. His eyes watered.
There would be no escape this time. Kronos’s grip was a vise, his strength unsurmountable. His bionic exoskeleton suit would see to that. It would allow him to suspend the intruder like that indefinitely. It wouldn’t be necessary.
He witnessed the man’s eyes turn glassy, his face darken. His thrashing began to slow. Kronos lowered him to get a better look as if taking pleasure in watching the man fall into his death throes. But there was no pleasure. No fascination. He felt nothing. He was simply watching the events unfold before him as if he were flossing his teeth in front of a mirror. So what happened next took him by complete surprise.
He felt a sharp jab in his ribs and heard a brief hiss of air escaping from his left lung. Then the pain vanished. Kronos glanced down and saw a long, ornate letter opener sticking between his ribs. He was confused. He tried to understand how the man had swiped a letter opener from the desk. He never saw him do it. But his thoughts were muddled. Distant. And they kept slipping away from him like clouds in the wind.
Kronos lost his grip on the man’s throat, felt his legs melt beneath him, and fell to the floor. He was gasping, desperate to feed oxygen to his lungs. It was futile. At least there was no pain. Then the intruder leaned over him, his face filling the assassin’s field of view. “You should have left,” he said, his words a mere whisper.
Synapses fired. Images flashed before his eyes. Then a jarring thought. He recognized the man. He had seen him before—or was programmed to recognize him. “I know you…”
He never finished the thought. The intruder took the knife and pushed it through his temple. Merciful to the last.