Prologue, Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

 

At precisely 10:00 PM Calvin Jefferts left his walkup apartment in G-Town – it was no longer fashionable to call it using the first name of the former President, even though it had been named for George II of England or some local merchants, and not the first President – but Jefferts was nothing if not scrupulous about observing local customs. He turned right at the corner and then crossed the street and took a left, wending his way down the hill, trending east toward Wisconsin Avenue and the lobbyists’ corridor on the far side, the West End in reference to the District, in the interstices between Arlington and D.C. proper.

After his first stop, at the convenience store near his apartment for a drink, he knew he had surveillance. His second stop was a pool hall that occasionally hosted illegal backroom poker. He paid off his modest gambling debt and running tab with the house, plus the vig, and had a beer with the owner. By the time he left he identified which surveillance team was following him. In his mind, he had labeled this crew the B-Team, not so much because they were bad, but because of the nicknames he had given each member of the team started with that letter. There was the tall, heavy black couple that he dubbed Big Black Bro and Big Black Flo because of the fake wife’s resemblance to a tv sitcom character. Buddy and BoyMan, for the dog and the hipster with the man-bun that toted him around. Jefferts had once doubled-back and bumped right into them; BoyMan had stuttered that the dog’s name was “B-b-buddy.” Then there were the Blues Brothers in the support vehicle, a beat-up white van that picked up the team and shuttled them ahead of Jefferts’ route, and allowed them to change clothes and disguises.

Jefferts started wending his way up the hill again, up Potomac Street, and then turned right onto Prospect. He threw his coffee cup in a trashcan on the corner, in front of the sandwich shop, knowing they would sit on it, and later retrieve it. It would divert resources, and their attention briefly. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief – the humidity was oppressive tonight – then folded it and put it away in his inside pocket. Jefferts cracked the short, red, IR chemlight in his jacket pocket at the same time. It was invisible to him, but he knew it would be a beacon to an IR sensor, even in the press of people and lights along his route.

He picked up the pace right before he reached the Colonial Parking Lot and crossed the street. He might have imagined it, but he could swear he heard the buzz of a drone, a brief sound that faded and blended as it rose and turned and disappeared. Perhaps he imagined it…?

But he knew, and could feel the rush of adrenaline.

It’s on.

*     *     *     *     *

 

Hector Guerra Recio-Alfrido looked at his watch, kicked the foot of the man in the expensive suit tied and taped to the chair, who didn’t respond. Hector walked past the chair to where the drone operator was sitting staring at the screen.

“Well?” Hector asked.

“He did it, Unico. He’s inbound now.”

“Mm.” Hector looked away from the tilting and twisting imagery on the screen because it made him nauseous. He got motion sickness just from watching the drone’s feed as it swooped and skittered around the District above them. Hector walked back through the darkness of the tunnel, slinging his AR-10 over his shoulder, as he approached the unconscious man, who was starting to move and moan.

Hector turned around and whistled to the guards he couldn’t see, but he knew were at the bottom of the escalators.

“Ay, amigos. Agua, por favor.”

Harmon Kendrick floated up from unconsciousness to the waking world.

“Wha-” he mumbled. “How…?” He had a recollection of his Jefferts’ phone call to meet with his source, of driving somewhere he thought he recognized in NorthEast, and then the car stopped, the doors locked, and then his driver got out and walked away from the car. Then the doors opened and he remembered the chloroform. He felt a little nauseous at the thought and taste.

Hector stood just out of Kendrick’s sight. Footsteps came from the distance, the dirt giving each a slight scratch on the concrete that echoed around the cavernous subway tunnel in the darkness. The sound slowed as the runner approached and came into the light. Hector raised his eyebrows and the young man, dark-skinned, closer to black than brown, held two plastic bottles of water up. Hector nodded and held his hands up and the man tossed one and then the other through the air. Hector caught each one nonchalantly.

“Gracias.” He smiled tightly and motioned the man back to his post with a nod of his head. The scratching run-sound dopplered away in the darkness.

Hector grabbed a milk crate from near the wall of the platform and set it on the ground in front of Harmon Kendrick, who was squinting and blinking, craning his neck to look around. His eyes locked on Hector as he walked over and held his hands up with the water. He put the bottles down and then slowly reached Kendrick’s face, then gently pulled the tape off of his mouth.

Kendrick exhaled loudly and began breathing through his mouth.

“Some agua, cabron?” Kendrick eyed him warily but nodded his head.

Hector unscrewed the cap and gave Kendrick several sips of water.

“So, you’re El Unico, eh?” Kendrick asked after he finished swallowing.

Hector sat down on the crate and put the water bottles down. He looked at Kendrick and shrugged.

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Hector replied. Kendrick stared at him.

“What’s another way of looking at it?” Hector looked at Kendrick directly for the first time and just stared. Finally he spoke.

“Kendrick, do you believe in God?” Hector could see Kendrick start at the mention of his name.

“Not really… No. Superstition without proof – nothing more than a way to control the masses.” Kendrick then nodded at the water with his head and eyes and Hector obliged him. Hector put the water bottles back down on the ground after and sat on the milk crate again.

“Well, if I were you – y’know, given your current situation – I would seriously consider the idea.” Hector stated flatly. Kendrick nodded in reply.

“Well, what exactly is my current situation? And perhaps we can discuss ways in which that situation could change?” Kendrick offered.

Hector snorted, nodded his head side-to-side, and then took a drink of water from the second, unopened bottle.

“No, I made a deal for you, pinche cabron. But, your situation is definitely going to change, that I promise…” Hector looked at his watch with a glance, “sooner than you want.”

Kendrick started to speak but a hiss made him pause. He saw Hector look up and over his shoulder, then heard a voice say “five minutes out.”

Hector nodded and then his face got somber and serious.

“Kendrick, I’m not a priest, but if there’s anything you would like to confess, or get off of your chest…or maybe ask for forgiveness…” Hector stopped as he looked at the disdain on Kendrick’s face, then stood up. “Suit yourself, guey, but you’ve seen your last sunrise and sunset. And by my calculations, you’ve got less than –” he looked at his wrist again, “– an hour left in this life… Less if you’re lucky.” Kendrick heard the words but couldn’t really process them.

Hector leaned over him and whispered in his ear: “Kendrick, you piece of shit – these next forty-five minutes are going to be longer than all the years of your life together, but that’s on you. Sow the wind and reap the whirlwind, puto.” Before Kendrick could say anything by reply, Hector abruptly stood up and cocked his head. He turned around and walked toward the platform’s edge, looked down the subway tunnel, and leaned out, his head tilted as he listened.

Kendrick finally heard the sound and perhaps twenty seconds later saw tiny, pinpricks of red and green lights. Moments later a drone came buzzing out of the tunnel, swooped around, zipped over his head, hovered, and then Kendrick heard it hit the concrete somewhere behind his chair.

Hector looked over the top of Kendrick’s head and shouted: “Start packing it up!”

Kendrick could hear sounds behind and out of his field of view. Hector walked past him and went to the wall, grabbed a black tool box with a bundle of climbing rope tied and knotted on top of it. Hector slid the box away from the wall. Then he stopped and looked at his watch.

Kendrick heard footsteps again, echoing off of the walls, coming from the same direction the drone had just come. In a moment he thought he saw a mass of darkness that resolved itself into a man, but his view was blocked as Hector leaned out over the platform and stuck his left arm out. Another arm reached, and then a tall, black man that Kendrick instantly recognized, swung himself up, and landed lightly on the platform.

Kendrick was transfixed as the men shared a brief smile. This man was like a doppleganger of the man he knew. It was the same man, it had to be the same man, yet Kendrick wasn’t certain. He move differently and Kendrick could hear words being exchanged and the accent was gone.

“Wha-?”

Calvin Jefferts wore boots, some version of dark military fatigues, and he moved like a leopard. Jefferts started toward Kendrick and when Kendrick looked into his eyes, he winced involuntarily. There was no way to be confused about what was coming.

“NO! NO!” Kendrick started yelling.

Kendrick watched the big Mexican put his hand on Jefferts’ shoulder.

“Marcus!” Hector shouted. “Marcus,” he said again, less urgently, as the man looked at Hector’s arm on his shoulder.

“Did you make a deal, Hector?” Kendrick heard the voice, but again, it wasn’t Jefferts. It was completely devoid of that foreign accent.

Hector sighed deeply.

“I’m going to forget and forgive that because I know… I know you’re not yourself, mi amigo. Not for him, Marcus… For you. Let’s just put a bullet in this putera mierdra,” Hector sneered, then turned and spit toward Kendrick.

The man called Marcus just stared ahead and then asked, “Did you bring what I asked?”

Hector sighed again, let go of Marcus’ arm, and pointed toward the black toolbox.

“Not for him, Marcus. For you, brother.” Kendrick thought he saw tears on the Mexican man’s face.

Marcus ignored him and went to the toolbox and Hector began backing up. He looked briefly over his shoulder at Kendrick and shook his head.

“Marcus, if you miss the pickup point…” Hector tapped his watch, as Marcus flipped open the toolbox and spoke coldly without looking up.

“I’ll be there, Hector. Just have your men wait up top. I would like this time,” and now he stood up and Kendrick saw the ball-peen hammer in his left hand, “alone with this man.”

Hector nodded, turned, and then strode away into the darkness. And Harmon Kendrick was suddenly aware of just how alone he was, with a man he recognized, but no longer knew.

“Jefferts isn’t your real name, eh?” Kendrick spoke and regretted it instantly when he heard his own voice crack with fear.

The man paused for a moment, looked down at the hammer, as if he were seeing it for the first time, and then looked back up at Kendrick. He was crying as he walked towards Kendrick, who began to scream and wail and the inevitably of what was happening hit him. There would be no negotiating around this.

“No! No! Please! I’m begging, I’m begging, please!! Please don’t do this, Marcus?! Oh, please! Nooo!!!” Kendrick tried to twist, thrash, to kick himself free, spasming as his arms and wrists strained, spit flying from his mouth, all to no avail as the Angel of Death closed in on him.