Off Wire

Off-Wire

by

D. Avraham

Smashword Edition

Copyright 1990 D. Avraham

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Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

About the Author

Chapter One

New York City, New York

October, 1990

The distinguished gentleman laughed. You want to know my real name? But why? I haven't used it in decades. It'd be a wonder if anyone remembered it. You'd learn nothing from it. It's such a plain ordinary name. As if the names they do call me accurately reflect what and who I am. The sophomoric dalliances of sensationalists: Assassin, killer, murderer, and a host of others whose main purpose is to turn me into the other, some sort of societal aberration. Tell me, how do I look to you? As a monster? An ugly, mentally unstable, amoral creature lurking in the shadows? I suppose that image comforts you; separates 'civilized man' from the beasts. If you were to find out that I was your next-door neighbor, the grocery boy, or your banker it might make you ill at ease, suspicious. Be suspicious. I have a family, a career, friends, and colleagues. I walk among you, as you. I always have and I always will.

It is hard to explain exactly what it is that separates me from you, aside from the training. Unless, it is that I have tasted blood, having enjoyed its sweet nectar. The power, the adrenalin high that one gets when living on the edge, is far more potent than any pharmaceutical. It surges from within and spreads to every pore, exploding in brilliant energy. I have the power of life and death. How many mortals can say such a thing? However, with that power does come responsibility. Yes, even I am aware of that. I apologize to your sensibilities, but I am not amoral. Killing, in and of itself, is not an evil act. It has, in fact, kept you and yours alive. Do you truly believe your government functions without men and women like me cleaning up their messes, their embarrassments? I am the one they call when their goals are unattainable through 'normal channels.' Put down the newspaper, if you want to know what happens in the world. The news is there for your consumption, your entertainment and amusement – your pacification. It is not an accurate account of the world. It is designed to keep you and yours blissfully plodding through your life, living in your honey-draped 'reality' while people like me decide your destiny.

I risk my life. By choosing to be a player, I have made myself a target. My list of enemies grows exponentially with each kill. My profession has made me a wealthy man, but, I assure you, that is not why I continue. Why then, you ask? I think, it is the challenge. Yes, the challenge, the plotting, the meticulous concentration on detail. That, in and of itself, is a rush. I do plan to retire some day. While away the hours, and relive fond memories. I would like to spend more time with my children. Did you know that I have children? Yes, I am human, you know. Soon, it will be time to stop before someone finally does catch up with me. But not yet. No, retirement is for the aged and there are still many good years left in this old carcass. Are you getting all this? You know I don't normally give interviews. The Assassin leaned back in his chair to draw a breath. The room surrounding the infamous killer did not fit with his persona. It was a shabby room, rented from a run down hotel in one of the less reputable districts of the city. By contrast, the Assassin wore a dark, double breasted Italian suit, matching Tap shoes, and a red striped tie, looking more like a refined model from the pages of GQ than a brutal killer. The splashes of gray at the corners of the otherwise black head of hair only added to the image of a distinguished gentleman.

Yes, I know, you are hard to get to. The reporter smiled, and offered the Assassin a cigarette. He jotted down some notes in his spiral pad. Yes, he understood. It had taken months of planning to get this story, a story which any paper would pay handsomely, even under normal circumstances. And circumstances were about to change.

The Assassin accepted the cigarette, lit it and took a long drag. Nasty habit, these are, I really shouldn't indulge. The Assassin smiled wickedly. They could kill me.

Yes they could, the reporter agreed. Sooner than you think.

The offhanded remark tickled up Jacques Trudea's spine. The Assassin's eyes jerked to meet the reporter's. Was that a threat? The Assassin's instincts warned him too late. The toxic smoke was already circulating through his blood stream. He fell to his knees. Trudeau could not make his lungs work. Pain filled his chest. Heart attack? No, that was wishful thinking. The Assassin knew the truth. It had happened. Looking up at the reporter, Trudea's suspicions were confirmed: the gloating smile, that calm, defiant stance. Shit, the best was beaten. No! He was The Assassin. Fight! Shit, can't move. Done for. No, not over yet! Fight! Make the lungs work. Have to call my support team. Why is he just standing here? At least, I should take him out, bring him to hell with me. No! Can't move. Can't talk. God, who is he? How? Too many questions. Not the time for questions. Calm down. Concentrate. Crawl along the floor. That's it. Don't Panic. This is taking too long. Maybe it's not a lethal dose. Pain! Maybe he just wants me to suffer. Pain! Can't breath. Jesus, the bastards could ... Pain! Who is he? Pain! God, help me I'm dying.

The Reporter smiled. Yes, the planning. God, you were hard to kill, but I will see you get a proper eulogy, old man. The reporter put away his tape recorder, his note pad and his pen. Meticulously, he began to remove any evidence which would suggest he had been in the room. Crossing the hotel room, the Reporter picked up the Assassin's brief case, opened the lock and removed two small plastic squares before re-closing the case and re-locking it. Scanning the room a final time, the Reporter quickly and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The hallway was void of life except for a motionless drunk curled in the corner by the decaying, wooden stairs. The smell of alcohol was overpowering. The drunk was less animate than the dead assassin, thought the reporter, a worthless waste of space. The reporter ignored him. But as he reached the ancient stairway, the drunk stirred, and came alive. Swinging his arms out, he caught the Reporter's leg, and sent the Assassin's killer reeling down the stairs to the next landing. Defying his appearance, the drunk swiftly followed, jumping quickly after the Reporter, kicking him just below the ribs, and pouncing onto his back. The Reporter's mind reeled in pain as he struggled to remain conscious. Damn the pain! Shit, I was careless. I missed the sentry. Damn! Of course the Assassin would have some type of fail-safe. Damn it I'm an idiot!

The reporter pushed against the immense girth of his opponent and kicked his legs up with all his strength. His embarrassment gave him a renewed burst of adrenaline. The drunk fell off-balance and the Reporter gained new footing. But, the drunk wasn't in the mood for a battle. He pulled a silenced, Berretta 9mm. pistol from the folds of his dark woolen jacket and aimed it at the reporter. The Reporter lunged desperately. He managed to get under the gun before a shot could be fired, and the two fell to the dusty floor. The Reporter kneed the drunk's throat as he tried to keep away his increasing panic. He had the advantage. The Reporter grabbed the drunk's head and, bracing his arms against his back, twisted. There was a sickening snap. The drunk's body became instantly rigid, and then fell limp.

Grabbing the dead man's weapon, the Reporter rushed down the stairs, towards the exit and freedom. He only made it two steps, before he stopped, and with a deliberate gesturing of his hands forced himself to stem his panicked rush. Breathing deeply, the Reporter returned to the lifeless drunk. Kneeling, he searched his victim's pockets. The findings were meager: a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, a wallet and keys. Replacing everything but the alcohol, the killer carefully positioned his second victim of the day against the pale green cement wall, and emptied the bottle in the drunk's mouth and onto his clothes. The Reporter placed the empty bottle into the tightening grip of the dead man's left hand. He spent several moments adjusting the body. Stepping back, he admired his work – a passed-out drunk, sick on cheap liquor. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it would have to do. This was a part of New York City where sights like this were all too common. No one would pay the dead man a second glance, at least not until the stench became too strong.

Satisfied, the Reporter turned and inched down the hallway, testing each door. Finding one unlocked, he cautiously crept inside. The room appeared unoccupied. The Reporter closed and locked the door. He took a deep breath, and allowed himself to sit on the edge of the bed, and then expelling another deep breath; he collapsed onto the bed. He closed his eyes and allowed the tension to wash over him. Shit that was close. Too close.

When the panic and tension ebbed, the Reporter slowly rose to a sitting position, shook the last trace of trepidation from his mind, and began to assess the damages. First the physical injuries: Bruised ribs, though it didn't feel like anything was broken; broken nose, shit, I always seemed to be breaking that beak; and a few lacerations and bruises. Good, nothing serious, just painful, and more to my ego than my body. How could I have missed the sentry? What was I thinking? Of course the Assassin would have provided insurance against betrayal, no matter how harmless he though an unarmed free-lance reporter was, and no matter how much of his background had been checked out. The Assassin was an assassin and it was a professional necessity to be paranoid. Even an amateur would realize an 'all-clear' signal would be needed before anyone would be allowed to just walk away. What was I thinking? He had let the triumph of the Assassin's death get to him. Still, the Assassin was dead – mission accomplished. But, now, the Reporter realized that carelessness would get him killed and he was still two flights away from the exit with a sea of unknown in between. The Reporter could ill afford to be careless again. He had to worry about any other traps the dead man may have laid.

Crossing to the window, the Reporter looked out onto an alleyway. It was near midday, not a busy time for the type of hotel which charged by the hour. The alley seemed quiet. There was the occasional sound of cats or rats fighting for food scraps, but otherwise, nothing. Would the Assassin have been content with the one sentry? Probably not. He didn't get to be the best from being careless and casual. What about the man who had brought the Reporter? The guide had picked him up at another hotel, and searched him before bringing him blindfolded to this dump. Where was he, now? He had said he would be waiting for the Reporter when he finished to return the Reporter to the original rendezvous. He was probably waiting in the lobby. But the guide hadn't driven the car that had brought him here. What about the driver? He was probably sitting on the street with the engine running, covering the entrance. Okay, two guys watching the entrance, and one guard in the hallway outside the room – thankfully, now dead. What was he missing? Think damn it, think! The back – would the Assassin guard the back of the hotel? Of course he would. There was probably at least one guard watching this very alley. That was a pretty standard scenario. The Reporter laughed at himself. He was starting to think again. The Reporter had almost blown the perfect execution of his kill by forgetting a basic rule of the trade craft: a job is not complete until you are extracted from the scene. Soaking in a nice hot tub, miles from the incident is the only time you ever want to think about letting your guard down, and even then it's with a hint of trepidation. The Reporter released another heavy sigh. It wasn't the city beat, that's for sure. But, at least he was thinking again and not acting like some raw kid on his first date. Someone had to be watching that alley. But who? And, more importantly, where?

The Reporter stood at the window and slowly scanned the alley, slicing the area up into grids in his mind's eyes. Only after the Reporter was satisfied with one small section did he allow his attention to move to another grid of the harsh, urban scenery. There. He found his answer. Not in the street but in the building across the way. In a window, five floors above the Reporter, sat the last guard – he hoped he was the last; a marksman holding a scoped rifle.

Now he knew all the obstacles - hopefully. Now, he had to figure a way around them. Side window? No, he'd be seen from the front or back. Up, onto the roof? No. The buildings are too far apart to play leap frog. The marksman was about thirty yards away - not an easy shot with an unfamiliar handgun, especially considering the angle. Damn it. The reporter tried to remember the layout coming in. It seemed that the stairway was separate from the lobby. Maybe there was a way out through a kitchen or something. He laughed. It was questionable if a place like this had a kitchen. Probably didn't even have a public restroom. The Reporter began to feel penned in. He couldn't stay here forever. Eventually, someone would check in with the Assassin, and find out that he's dead. And then the Reporter would be the hunted. Everyone would be looking for him.

The Reporter left the room, and returned to the hallway, measuring every step. The dead drunk was still there. He stepped over the fallen sentry, and made his way down the rickety metal staircase to the first floor. The front door was twenty-five feet in front of him, a few more paces to the street and freedom, if it there wasn't anyone out there on guard waiting for him. Would they be watching the front door, or would they simply be waiting for some signal from the Assassin? Think. What to do? There wasn't any way out besides the front door, and anyone leaving that way had to pass directly in front of the lobby. Shit. Well, thought the Reporter, the best solution to any difficulty was to remove the source of the problem. In this case, that meant taking out the Guide and the driver, hopefully one at a time.

The lobby was to the Reporter's right. He stretched his vision around the corner, and he could just make out someone that looked a lot like his 'guide' sitting on a dilapidated couch scanning the contents of a magazine. It could be the Guide, or it could be his imagination and a bit of wishful thinking making someone else out to be the Guide. But who sits in the lobby of a hotel at noon, looking at magazines, especially a hotel like this. Judging by the cover, it was one of those magazines that didn't to profit from its readers' ability to recognize the alphabet. The Guide was making a study of it. He was engrossed. Well, thought the Reporter, it was now or never. In one leap, he was beside the pornographic connoisseur, hoping he had really recognized his target. He jammed the muzzle of the Berretta between the guide's seventh and eighth ribs, keeping the weapon hidden from view. The Guide jumped, but pressure from the barrel returned him to his senses.

Hey Amigo, I need a ride. Can you walk me to your car. The Reporter's tone was light.

The Guide turned and stared into the Reporter's eyes. It was met with the stare of a trained killer. The eyes were cold and calculating. The Guide recognized the sensation in his side, and he was deathly afraid. Thoughts ran rampant through his mind. The Assassin and the guard outside his door were both dead, or this reporter wouldn't be here. The Guide would have been called up to escort him down had everything gone as planned. The Guide was aware of his own limitations. He was an administrator for the Assassin. Though the Guide was capable of killing, and had done so in the past, he hadn't any illusions about his own abilities. His slight frame, though strong, was no match for the man seated beside him. He had lost any advantage he might have had in the folds of Miss October. The Guide knew that he was not long for this world, unless he could stall, and buy some time. He needed to find an opportunity, an opening and turn it into an advantage. What to do now? The Reporter needed him, but once he did what this reporter asked, he knew he would probably wind up dead. Why not just get it over with here and now? Force his hand.

Reading his mind, the Reporter supplied the answer. He pulled the Assassin's administrator to his feet, and pushed him to the far wall of the lobby. They faced the peeling dirt gray paint. The Guide looked at the Reporter, an expression of puzzlement. The Reporter offered a playful smile, and then suddenly tightened his grasp on the Guide's neck, and thrust the Guide's face towards the wall. The Reporter smashed the small man's head into the wall three times. The red impression left on the decrepit structure seemed almost artistic, but the blood escaping from the guide's broken nose failed to compliment the Guide's face in the same manner. The Guide stumbled. If it weren't for the iron grip on his neck, he would have fallen. He nearly blacked out from the pain. His vision clouded, stars danced. The Guide managed to notice the front desk clerk look away. The clerk made a purposefully effort not to notice the incident.

The Reporter didn't lessen his grip from the Guide's neck, but his tone was even. Walk me to your car. You know this neighborhood isn't safe.

All resistance in the Guide was gone. He slowly shuffled alongside the Reporter towards the hotel entrance. The Reporter jerked him back just short of the front door. Wait. Fix your face, Idiot. You're bleeding all over the place.

The Guide pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began wiping away the blood. When he touched his nose, stars shot through his vision. He closed his eyes to ward off the pain. Gingerly, he cleaned away the blood.

The Reporter watched, silently. When the Guide was presentable, the Reporter twisted the Guide's face towards his own. Tell me, or I will make you suffer, is there a signal for the driver?

The Guide hesitated. He wanted to ask this arrogant man holding him up by his neck if he realized the lunacy in his own statement. Make him suffer? The Guide was already suffering, and he knew that he wouldn't be permitted to survive the length of the day. This Reporter would kill him. He would have to. The Guide could identify him. He knew who he was. What was the point? The Assassin's administrator opened his mouth. He wanted to shout at the Reporter, to tell him to wake up and smell the coffee, but he realized the futility of his situation, wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. Let's play this game out.

No. The Guide's words were slow and deliberate. No, you're supposed to just walk out there with me. The Guide then slipped. How did you do it? He knew it was stupid to ask, but he wanted to know.

Just move. The Reporter pushed the man out the front door, and they walked to the car. The Reporter leapt into the back seat of the waiting Ford, dragging the Guide in behind him.

What's your hurry? The driver was furious. Do you want to draw attention? Then the driver saw the gun. He looked at the Reporter, and then, again, he looked at the gun. His eyes shifted to the guide's destroyed face, and then, again, he looked at the gun.

The Reporter noted the observation. Just keep both hands on the wheel and drive out of the city. New York's too crowded this time of the year.

How? It was all the driver was able to say. He, like many others, had always assumed the Assassin to be immortal. It was a universal truth to the driver that the Assassin was un-killable. Hell, he was too damn good. The driver shook his head. His entire world had just collapsed; nothing made sense to him at the moment. Carefully, the driver eased the Ford out Route 495 and headed east. He was now deathly afraid of the man sitting in his back seat. That man had killed the Assassin. That was a dangerous man. The driver also recognized that his future had just become a lot more precarious.

As they drove on, the two former employees of the Assassin began to relax, if only a little. They were still alive. Maybe this Reporter wasn't going to kill them after all. The Guide looked at the Reporter and his hope soured. The Reporter's chiseled features reflected the intensity of his thoughts. How fast are you going? he asked the driver.

Fifty. I wouldn't do anything to draw attention. The driver checked his speed to be sure.

Speed up to seventy or eighty.

Both men's jaws dropped. The Guide looked with wonder at the Reporter. What was he trying to do? The driver didn't ask any questions. He simply swallowed hard and sped up. Without warning, the Reporter reached across the Guide's body and opened the door on his side of the car. Before the Guide realized what was happening, the Reporter shoved him out of the car and into the traffic. The back door slammed shut and the Reporter slid behind the driver. His instructions were crisp. Slow down and get off at the next exit. The driver nodded, and eased the car into the right lane. The Reporter kept the gun pressed to the driver's neck. Now, look back in your mirror and tell me what happened to that man.

Swallowing hard, the driver turned his head, he checked the rear view mirror and then looked behind him. His eyes froze on the gun pressed against his cheek for a moment, before he looked beyond it. The Guide had been hit by the car behind them. He was thrown up into the air, and had come down in the path of another car, which dragged him several feet, before sliding across the highway. Finally, his tattered body was thrown over the cement median into oncoming traffic. He is dead. The driver suppressed an urge to scream.

Though he wanted to, the driver did not ask the Reporter if his fate would follow suit. That was the way the game was played. There really wasn't any question. Unless the situation changed- unless he could change the situation, the driver knew he would die soon too.

The Reporter wasn't planning on allowing the situation to change. Reaching over the seat, he felt inside the driver's jacket and removed the forty-four caliber Smith and Wesson. The Reporter placed it inside his own black trench coat. The Reporter pointed to a supermarket ahead. Pull into that parking lot, park the car and give me the keys.

The driver followed the instructions explicitly.

Open your window. Keep both hands on the wheel.

The driver did as he was told.

The Reporter carefully slid out of the car, keeping the 9mm trained on the driver. Now, get out, slowly.

The driver opened his door, slowly. He would only have one chance. The burly man stepped carefully onto the blacktop, and then lunged at the Reporter. But the Reporter expected the move, and sidestepped the driver, kicking into the large man's left knee. It shattered. The burly driver dropped to the ground in pain. Seizing on the opportunity, the Reporter whipped the weapon across the driver's face, and gripping the butt of the gun with both hands, swung down, smashing the man's neck. The driver's large frame melted into the blacktop. He choked on his own blood, and soon gasped his last breath.

The Reporter opened the car's trunk, and dragged the limp body behind the car. With difficulty, he lifted the large mass into the compartment. Only after closing the trunk, did he allow himself to take in his surroundings. The parking lot had been deserted when they drove in, and it seemed to have remained so. He was sure that any witnesses would still be gaping after the incident, or running like a madman away from him, and he didn't see evidence of either. The Reporter checked his own clothes. He was fairly clean, nothing that belied he had just killed four men. He straightened his cuffs and strode into the supermarket. It was nearing the dinner hour, so the establishment wasn't crowded. Smiling, the Reporter found a pay phone, inserted a quarter and dialed a number he had memorized from constant use.

Hello. The voice at the other end of the line was soft and beautiful.

Hello Sis. Bad news, I'm afraid. Uncle Jack won't make it for Christmas this year. Seems the old boy had a heart attack.

That's a royal shame. He always carried such wonderful gifts with him.

The Reporter smiled. He loved this part of his chosen profession. It was so ... James Bond. Don't you worry, Sis. I got his shopping list and I'll make sure it's your best Christmas ever.

That's wonderful. I'm so looking forward to it. See you soon. Bye. The voice hung up the phone and the line went dead.

The Reporter laughed to himself. It's was all one big game. Let's play with the world. Putting down the receiver, the Reporter fished another quarter out of his knit pants. He had another call to make, this time to his editor. He had a tremendous scoop, an interview with one of t he most wanted men in the world, and now with the infamous killer's soon to be announced death, the story would be worth millions. The last interview of the legendary Assassin, and a report of his own assassination all rolled into one. The Reporter let loose another laugh. One big fucking game.

***

A full hour and a half over schedule, the Marksman was becoming increasingly unsettled. He knew that the Assassin was pompous, but he was also extremely meticulous, and no interview with the 'illustrious Assassin,' no matter how flattering he was being to himself, should run over by that much time. Something was definitely wrong. The Marksman decided he was going to have to investigate.

Keeping his eyes trained on the alleyway and the hotel across the way, the Marksman dismantled his rifle, a customized Colt AR-15, placing it piece by piece into its cushioned case, which, if one didn't know better, would be liken to the carrying case of some musical instrument. When the Marksman finished laying the rifle to rest, he extracted a H&K 9mm pistol from a holster in his in the small of his back and carefully examined the barrel, the slide and the magazine before placing it on the table in front of him. Scanning the alley a final time, he donned the long dark gray raincoat that had been hanging on a nail near the window, and placed the handgun into its front pocket. He then began the journey across the alley to the hotel.

Walking around the hotel, the Marksman casually looked for, but failed to find any sign of the dark blue Ford. That was a bad omen. The Marksman's neck tensed. Entering the hotel, the Marksman's anxiety grew at not having found any evidence of the guide. Things were looking grayer than his trench coat. Sighing deeply, the anxious man hesitantly started up the stairs. He didn't really want to discover what he knew must have happened. And there, at the top of the landing, was the final proof. The sentry was slumped over like an unconscious drunk in the stairwell, but the Marksman knew that the man. abstained from alcohol, only carrying a bottle as part of his costume. It wasn't spirits that left him lying there. The Marksman reached down and uncovered the neck to check for any sign of life. It was, to be sure, a