The Hunted Assassin (3 page)

Martin scampered back to the shipping containers and grabbed the killer’s pistol. He retook his position back behind the container and waited for the second assassin. After nearly thirty minutes of silence, Martin concluded that he was safe. The final assassin had either called off the hunt or was searching in a different part of the space station entirely.

4

Martin repacked his satchel with all the weapons that he’d scavenged from the assassins before doing a final pass through of the warehouse, hoping to pilfer any additional items he might need. Unfortunately, every container was secured with a bio-lock, programmed to unlock at the touch of the owner. And the owner only. In his past, Martin had tried numerous times to trick similar locks into opening, and that was when he was in possession of a random body part of the unfortunately dead owner. The lock was intelligent enough to include a pulse sensor as well as a DNA scanner and fingerprint reader.

Resolved to retrace his steps empty handed, he turned and headed for the ramp. As he got to the edge of the inclined path, Martin found a floor plan plastered on the wall, outlining the entire service pathway system of the space station.

Hurray,
he thought, as he pried the plastic shield away from the wall, allowing the map to slip from behind. Analyzing it, he noted the location of his tea shop in relation to his next stop. Then, he found where he was currently at, and determined his path. He was happy to find that the service tunnels led almost the entire way to McKinner’s, but the final sector would have to be traversed out in the public thoroughfare.

Martin folded up the map and slipped it into his shoulder bag then bounded up the ramp.

---

When Martin slipped out of the service door, the surrounding area was much different than that on his side of the station. He so infrequently visited the seedy part of Taloo, he’d almost forgotten how contrasting such a small space station could actually be.

Moving through the grungy neighborhood, he could see the sign of McKinner’s ahead, half of the neon light letters burned out long ago. The vicinity was practically empty, most everyone having already joined the celebration at the Promenade. That suited Martin perfectly, as it gave him the ability to see any approaching attackers more easily.

As Martin stepped up to McKinner’s entry door, he paused briefly, hoping that this forced reunion would pass by amicably. Then, Martin stepped through and into his past.

The inside of the bar was dark and hazy, even though smoking was prohibited on the station. Martin recalled the owner mentioning long ago that he wanted the ambiance of an old biker bar and had installed the smoke machine for effect.

Martin walked further into the bar and discovered that the place was completely deserted. There wasn’t a customer in sight, and the only person besides himself that was present was the bartender. The very person he was there to see. Sonja.

He sat down at the bar and looked across the dark mahogany top and into the most brilliant hazel eyes he’d ever seen. “Hi,” he said, lowering his gaze slightly.

“Wow, you look like shit,” Sonja said, staring at the scrapes and bruises scattered across his face and neck.

“And you haven’t changed a bit, my dear.”

“First off, I’m not your dear anymore. You lost the right to call me that four years ago when you walked out on me … without even an explanation.”

Martin retraced the memories from his past. He’d been living above McKinner’s at the time. And having such close proximity to the place, he was quite the regular. That was until he began to recognize various deviations from the norm that caused him discomfort. He’d only been on station for a few years at that point and was still unsure about his new life as Martin Wheeler.

“Yeah, about that—”

To Martin’s surprise, Sonja’s eyes began to well up. “No. Stop. I don’t want your excuses. That’s water under the bridge. I’m over it just as much as I think you are,” she said.

Martin nodded slowly. “Yeah … that’s probably best,” he said, wishing that he hadn’t waited so long before seeing her again. He did feel terrible for just walking away. And now, here he was, showing up out of the blue, about to ask for something more.

“So. Tell me, Martin, why are you here?”

Martin winced as he adjusted his legs dangling from the barstool. “Do you still have my crate down in storage?”

“That’s it? You walk in here after four years and you just want your crate … and then you’re on your way again? You sonofabitch.”

“No, it’s not like that,” Martin said, realizing that his words were lies. “I wanted to … come here so many times, but I just couldn’t …”

“Yeah, I know,” she said sympathetically. “You just couldn’t find your balls long enough to give you motivation … I’ve heard it all. The crate’s down where you left it, high up on that shelf that you know I can’t reach.”

“Sonja, please. Don’t be like that. I’ve had it rough every day since I left, and you don’t know how much I regret doing it. But there’s more to it than what you realize. And maybe someday, you’ll understand everything.”

Sonja was about to walk away but stopped. There was something in Martin’s words that made her turn back, noticing the blood-soaked shirt for the first time. “My God, Martin, what happened to you? It looks like you haven’t shaved in years and your hair is … don’t even get me started on the long hair. And it looks like you’ve just run into the back of a star freighter, and you’re bleeding,” she said, motioning to his shoulder.

“Long story short, I got jumped,” Martin lied.

Sonja’s expression changed instantly as she moved to the side of the bar and up to Martin. “And it’s not just your shoulder, hon. It looks like they got your back too,” she said as she lightly touched the wound.

To Martin, her gentle touch felt more like the stinging spike of needles, and he instinctively pulled away.

“Don’t be a baby,” Sonja said, lifting the shirt up for a better look. “You can at least let me clean this up.”

Martin agreed and followed Sonja into the women’s room, where she took over as if she were a triage nurse.

“Let’s see just how bad it is,” she said as she washed her hands in the sink.

Martin nodded silently and carefully removed the blood-stained shirt before tossing it into the sink. Then, he loosened the drawstrings on his sweatpants and dropped them to the ground.

“Hey, buddy, don’t get any ideas,” Sonja said, seeing his reflection in the mirror. “I just wanted to tend to your injuries.”

“But what about the cuts down here?” Martin said, motioning to his lower leg.

“Jesus, Martin, what did you do to piss these guys off?”

Martin shrugged. He was concerned about disclosing too much information, on the off chance that the assassins followed him here.

Sonja wet a rag under the faucet then turned to him. “Okay, let’s see where it hurts. Turn around.”

Martin did so and placed his hand on the edge of the counter for support. Sonja slowly and methodically cleaned all of the dried blood from Martin’s skin. She had a motherly touch.

After nearly fifteen minutes of cleaning the wounds, she walked out of the bathroom without a word. Moments later, she returned with a first-aid kit and an arm full of folded-up clothing. As Martin eyed the clothes, Sonja rummaged through the first-aid kit, fishing out the ointment, gauze pads, and surgical tape. Within minutes, she had all of Martin’s injuries bandaged up neatly.

“Well, that should do until you get it looked at. Here are some clothes that might fit. Bruno always kept a change of clothes in his locker, and he hasn’t been around for a couple of months. He was about your size,” Sonja said, surveying Martin’s physique.

“Hey, Sonja. Thanks for everything. I mean truly, deeply.”

Sonja nodded and smiled. “You get dressed, and I’ll go grab the key for the storage room.” She walked out, leaving Martin standing in the women’s room, wearing more bandages than underwear.

Minutes later, Martin emerged, wearing a pair of brown corduroy trousers and a pullover shirt. “Well? Do I wear it as well as Bruno did?” he asked.

Sonja looked up but didn’t acknowledge the comment. She was back behind the bar and slid a key across the bar top. “Remember to turn out the light and lock up when you’re done. Stairs are in the back,” she said, turning her back to Martin as she mindlessly cleaned a glass that didn’t appear to be dirty in the first place.

Wordlessly, Martin picked up the key. He did feel bad about how he’d left things all those years ago, and couldn’t help but see a pattern in his behavior. A pattern that he wished he had the power to correct.

He walked through the back and into the stairwell. A quick jaunt down a flight of stairs and he was in another service corridor. It was similar to the one behind his own tea shop but much smaller. It was only used by the handful of businesses in that sector. There were no connections to the other service arteries throughout the station. He felt safe and that was good. He needed privacy, as he was about to open the storage crate. And his past.

Once in Sonja’s storage room, he surveyed the layout and found what he was looking for. On the top shelf, along the back wall, sat a wooden crate with the name SABER stenciled in bold letters along its side. Swiftly, Martin yanked at the handle, dropping it down to the ground with a crack.

Along the top of the crate, Martin found the digital padlock that he’d used to secure his belongings eight years earlier. Without thought, Martin entered in the sixteen-digit code from memory. The slowly flashing red light turned green, and an audible click echoed through the compact storage locker.

Martin wasted no time and flipped open the lid. Inside, he found everything exactly as he’d left it. On top were three travel documents. Each one with a different name.

The first one, Jaxon Rasner—his true identity. It was who he always was, and would be again.

The second one, Frederick Deerfield—his last known alias when he worked for the GSA. He tossed it to the side, knowing that using it now would be futile in his escape.

The third passport had the name Graham Campbell, and he felt that a change of identity would be beneficial once he was in Luna City. He set both Jaxon’s and Graham’s passports aside.

Jaxon had a fourth identity, Martin Wheeler—his current cover—and as soon as he got back to his apartment, he planned on disposing of all traces of the blown identity.
It was blown, right?
he wondered.

Next, he pulled out a large duffel that had the same name, SABER, stitched on the handle. His code name while working for the GSA. Unzipping the duffel revealed the main reason for his trip into the storage locker. Inside, he found a dozen stacks of universal spending credits, totaling more than he’d ever need to live out the rest of his life—in case of an emergency. An emergency such as this.

Beneath the credits, he found an old friend, an MP 96 rapid-fire proton pistol. Next to the weapon lay a box with enough ammunition to fire his way off of the station if necessary.

Along the bottom of the duffel, he found his last bit of good news. It was his custom-made environmental suit, complete with phasor armor. The design had been so advanced when he’d had it made that consumer-grade technology still hadn’t caught up with it.
Oh, the joys of being a covert agent.

Jaxon quickly shed his clothes and put on his environmental suit. The suit was skin tight, allowing it to be worn under regular clothing.

He redressed and then quickly transferred all the contents from the duffel into his new tea house satchel. It was a tight fit, but the touristy satchel drew far less attention than a government-issued duffle emblazoned with his old code name.

Lastly, Jaxon pulled an olive-colored jacket from the bottom of the crate and slipped it on. It was his old academy jacket, and he was surprised how well it still fit. He contemplated whether or not to take it, but the added feature of a double inside holster sold him.

Stuffing everything back into the crate, he returned it to the top shelf, quickly doused the light, and re-locked the door. A few minutes later, he was returning the key to Sonja at the bar.

“Everything as you left it?” she asked.

Jaxon nodded. “Did you even move it since I put it up there?”

“Nope. Once you told me that it was very important and imperative that it be left undisturbed, I took your word for it. Funny thing about trust, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.

“I guess I deserve that.”

“At the very least. Tell me, Martin. Was it me? Was it something else … that caused you to hurt me so bad?”

“No, it wasn’t you. It could never be you. It was me and … something that I couldn’t control. I still can’t control it now, but once I can, I want you to know that I’ll explain everything. Until then, I really have to go. I’ve imposed too much already—”

“So, that’s it? I’ll probably not see you for another, what? Six years?”

“Hopefully sooner. I have to … leave station for a bit, but I promise I’ll try—”

Shocked surprise spread across Sonja’s face. “You’re leaving? Anything to do with the attack?” she asked, concerned.

“A little. Like I said, Sonja, I want to tell you, but right now I can’t.”