Agent of Influence: A Thriller (51 page)

             
“I thought you were the top operations man!” Alex said sarcastically.

             
“Not anymore. We have a new guy. His name is Malcolm Ray.”

             
“What! They fired Malcolm?” Alex could not believe he was fired after what he had endured.

             
“Not at all. He is going to voluntarily resign so he can take over as Deputy Director of Operations. His old DDO is now the head of the CIA. Malcolm decided being the Director involved too much paperwork. His first job as DDO will be personally training you.”

Anna pushed a fresh magazine into
the butt of the pistol and placed it back on the table. “Better keep practicing. Malcolm is a difficult person to please.” Anna embraced him one more time and gave him a light kiss on the cheek. “Hurry up and get better. I’ll see you soon.” She moved quickly across the basement and up the stairs.

Alex watched the remarkable woman leave. All words seemed pointless. How could you thank someone who had saved your life so many times? Alex did not think it was possible so he watched her leave in silence. He suppressed his emotions and picke
d up the pistol. He needed more practice. The unknown future that now lay before him was exciting and terrifying at the same time. He could not fathom a guess as to what lay ahead, but he knew his fate, whether good or bad, was forever entwined with Ms. Starks.

Acknowledgements

First of all, I would like to thank my parents. They have worked hard for thirty years to provide me with all the tools I need to succeed in life, and I could not ask for better parents.

I would also like to thank my good friends Kevin and Phil for humoring me by reading the poorly written first drafts, and being kind enough not to say anything.

A special thanks is in order for my wife Angie, and my Uncle Bruce, who both spent an untold number of hours reading the manuscript, editing it, and providing me with helpful insights and constructive criticisms.

Following is an excerpt from the sequel to Agent of Influence. It is scheduled for release in late 2014.

One Single Warrior

Volume II in the Agent of Influence Series

By

Russell Hamilton

“When the time of triumph comes, with good fortune from both worlds as our companion, then by one single warrior on foot a king may be stricken with terror, though he own more than a hundred thousand horsemen.” Ismaili Poet.

Chapter 1

             
A rickety ceiling fan clicked slowly away, tossing the slightest of breezes into the otherwise humid room. It sputtered in its final throes as the slowing blades struggled to wipe out the rancid smell of death below. Flies circled the two naked corpses. A man’s slender body sat strewn akimbo in a bamboo chair, his shaggy black hair partially obscuring the sharply defined jaw line.

Sweat perspiring down his muscled chest, the assassin, naked himself except for gloved hands, stepped to the side of the chair, placed a pistol against the limp head and fired one shot with the dead victim’s .45 caliber Glock 21 into the right temple, and in the process obscuring the execution shot he made only minutes earlier with his own 9mm weapon. The second shot travelled the same flight path as the first so that there was just one entrance wound to go with the larger exit wound. This made it resemble a self-inflicted coup de grace. Blood and brain matter sprayed onto the dead hooker’s corpse sitting on the bed.

              He wiped the gun down as an added precaution and laid it loosely in the dead man’s hands. The scene of betrayal, murder, and suicide appeared obvious. The assassin took two steps back and tried to examine the scene with a clinical eye. It would be an open and shut case for the local police, and they would have no desire to investigate further when a favorite prostitute of a drug lord was butchered and left with the telltale warning of the cartel. Move the bodies and move on with their lives would be the path of least resistance.

             
His primal instincts flared as he turned his focus on the woman. She had claimed to be from Columbia, but her shoulder length hair was dyed bleach blonde, a stark contrast to her mahogany skin tone.  The bleached hair reminded him of a vain American woman, and this thought gave him additional pleasure when he crushed her larynx. Satisfied with his handy work he stepped into the rudimentary shower just off the bedroom to rinse off. He scrubbed vigorously until the blood of his victims was washed clean from his matted chest hair and legs. It mixed with the dirt and grime near the shower’s floor drain before descending into the rusty pipes below. He dried off, put on gym shorts and a tank top, and stepped from the dilapidated one story bungalow out into the muggy night. 

The neighborhood of shacks was quiet except for a few yapping dogs. The smell of salt water and the lapping of waves reminded him of how close the ocean was. The banker provided him with the correct information. It took a few weeks, his target was no novice after all, but the assassin was the perfect killing machine. A man whose ancestors were the original assassins, hired to kill neighboring sultans and then rewarded with gardens of milk, honey, and whores. Almost all of their victims were fellow Muslims, a point lost on the ignorant and unwashed, and the assassin hoped to follow in their footsteps. His mentor, a man named Aziz taught him patience, and cunning, but it had been his mortal enemy that turned him into a remorseless killing machine. Now that training had tied up a loose end before it could fray into something dangerous and unforeseen.

Despite being well over six feet tall he slinked smoothly and calmly through back yards, thickets of palm trees, mounds of junk cars, and pounds of debris scattered around the neighborhood until he came upon the wharf filled with fishing boats in various degrees of disrepair. He stalked to the end of the pier, climbed into his gleaming yacht, and generously paid the locals for standing watch over it. Within five minutes he was in the open ocean.  

             
Unable to control it, his mind’s eye returned to the carnage of the tiny apartment. It was not the death that disturbed him, but the sex.  It was his first time. Why he raped the hooker before crushing her larynx he was not sure. Forty two years as a virgin certainly made one curious, but it was not so much that as the need to guilt himself into an act that only made him even angrier. He spent his entire life controlling that anger, channeling it to the appropriate place and time before striking a death blow to his enemies. He was that rare breed that the angrier they got, the better his performance. This made him a lethal killer when he was in the Special Forces and it was why his superiors silently put up with the rumors from his teammates that he went on one man killing raids when they were on assignments in various third world hell holes. 

Even the best of killers can only last in the Special Forces for so long and his bosses were more than content to shuffle him along to his cozy job as a Secret Service
agent before he screwed up. He now had an additional sin to atone for and he would not fail this time.

Chapter 2

May, 2005

Ambergis Caye
, Belize 

It seemed an odd place for a cemetery, but on such a small island you must make do with every inch of available land. Anna unfurled her blanket, dropping it underneath the shade of a large palm tree. The pristine white beach prickled her toes as the late afternoon sun scorched the coarse sand.

              “Drink miss?” a young island boy in crisp white shorts magically appeared.

             
“No thanks.” She motioned for him to leave. She picked this spot because it was close to the graveyard that took up a part of the beach and she did not think the zealous cabana boys would bother her.

“Here. Take this and leave me alone. I need some sun.” She extracted some Belizean dollars from her beach bag and stuck them forcefully into his hand.

              Anna Starks sat on the blanket, stretched her bronzed legs, and took in her surroundings. She soaked in the familiar sights and sounds from the last few weeks of reconnaissance. A block to her right a group of local boys raced barefoot up and down a basketball court that was as much sand as concrete.  To the left groups of tourists baked in the sun.  Books dangled loosely from wet fingertips, while others sat in a zombie-like state soaking in the Caribbean heat with fins and snorkels resting beside them. Most of the sun worshipers held scuba certifications and spent their mornings diving the world’s second largest barrier reef that was a five minute boat ride from any of the hotel docks on the tiny island.

             
The young boy scurried off to harass other tourists. Anna fiddled with her striped Ella Moss Portofino cover up that helped to hide her slim figure, tied her black hair into a ponytail, and put on a ball cap to shade her facial features from prying eyes. She slid on a pair of fashionable, oversized sunglasses and lay on her back, the sunglasses hiding her methodical scanning of the beach.

An hour into her vigil the banker appeared for his daily swim.
Right on time
. He dropped his personal effects onto a folding beach chair and walked purposefully into the ocean. She studied his pale white, lithe frame as it glinted off the water. He swam freestyle furiously for twenty minutes before exiting the ocean. He was breathing heavily as he plopped onto his chair and closed his eyes. 

             
Anna quickly stood and rolled up the towel, stuffing it in her over-sized beach bag. She felt around the bottom of the bag until she touched the two silenced Sig Sauer pistols sitting at the bottom.
An advantage of being an agent and a woman was that you could carry huge bags around with all sorts of deadly goodies and blend right in
. She recited her mentor’s line again. No man could carry a bag with enough room for a silenced pistol, much less two, and not draw unwanted attention. 

Exchanging flip flops for Adidas running shoes she trudged through the sand, walking in the opposite direction of where the banker was napping. She circled the cemetery and came up to the dusty street running alongside the beach, taking a seat on a bench in front of the basketball court.
Keep La Isla Bonita clean.
Anna read the words on the garbage can as she pondered her course of action one more time. Would this banker have the information she needed? Two weeks of cautious inquires around the island and using her self as an old-fashioned honey trap had left this banker as her only possible target.
Can he lead me to Solomon before his previous employer caught up with him?

             
Solomon murdered two of her colleagues in broad daylight on a cold January day in Washington D.C. just a few months ago and then fled the country. He previously worked for a man named Aman Kazim, a Las Vegas casino owner whose massive tentacles stretched to D.C. where he curried favor with anyone willing to take his handouts or his whores, the most pliable and weak taking both.  Aman’s power and influence got his adopted son, Zachariah Hardin, elected President of the United States. They were both dead now, but their accomplice, an even deadlier foe was still on the loose.  As sick as it made her she was ready to let Solomon go in exchange for certain intel, but first she had to find him. He could not spill his guts if he was already gutted.

The banker appeared again on cue, scurrying up the beach and onto the street.
Twenty minute nap and now back to his office for a little overtime. He has forgotten the danger of a predictable routine.
Fiddling in her bag she extracted a disposable camera and started a leisurely stroll. She proceeded south on Great Barrier Reef Drive, the main street of the tiny “city” of San Pedro, the only city on the 25-mile island just off the coast of Belize. The streets were in fact nothing but dirt roads that were barely bigger than alleyways in America. The only vehicles that traversed them were government pickup trucks and golf carts hauling locals or lazy visitors.

             
She stopped at a tiny tourist trap and pretended to ponder entering it. An old woman standing just inside the creaky, white-washed wood building smiled a toothless smile and beckoned her to come inside.

             
“No thank you,” Anna said sweetly before continuing onward. She heard the crunch of footsteps on the dirt road approaching behind her and she picked up her pace. She walked past numerous little cafes, gift shops, and businesses and all the buildings were in a similar state of poor condition with weather-beaten wood, peeling white paint, and numerous boarded up windows. San Pedro had the appearance of a shanty town and a rough neighborhood but it was actually quite safe. The town was solely dependent upon the tourists and the feeling of danger which accompanied your first visit quickly vanished after a day on the island.

             
Anna could see the two-story building several blocks further down that housed the Catholic school on the island. Just past the school you literally ran into an eight foot chain link fence and just beyond it the tiny airport consisting of cracked concrete and scattered splotches of weeds that was just big enough to accommodate a constant stream of puddle jumpers. She glanced at her watch and hurried down the street, putting on a show for the banker she knew was rapidly approaching.
Does he recognize me?

Stopping at the next intersection she glanced up at the façade of the building.
Alliance Bank.
Out of the corner of her eye she spotted Alex Bryce, her assistant for the moment casually reading a newspaper on a bench. He would make sure they were not disturbed.
The two story wood building was in slightly better condition than the surrounding ones but still looked nothing like what you would imagine the typical Caribbean bank would be.  Anna tried the door and found it locked, as she knew she would since most businesses on the island typically closed early on Friday. She put her face to the glass, peered inside, and waited.