The Kasparov Agenda (Omega Ops Legion Book 1) (10 page)

“I see.” Oswalt paused a moment. He found it unsettling to hear someone whom he didn’t know talk about what happened in that condo, especially when that someone was Jack Solly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Solly, I’m still a little confused as to what this call is regarding.”

“Well, I’m not sure if you are aware of this, but the man you killed was a very dangerous criminal and murderer. I believe some of my more notorious business rivals had him in their employment—for extremely hostile takeovers. They’re targeting my enterprise now, as you have witnessed.”

“Do you have any information that could help in our investigation?”

“I do, but I can’t let just anyone be privy to the knowledge I have to offer. You see, Officer Fletcher, I need to know that I can trust them.”

Oswalt walked back to the window and stared out into the night. “Mr. Solly—I’m not quite sure what you expect of me.”

“I want you to work for me.”

“In what capacity?”

“Same as you are now. A police officer…but one that has my interests in mind. If my business ventures are in need of privacy, you’ll make that happen. If I point you in a direction where I see wrongdoings transpiring, you’ll take care of it…like any good cop would.”

Oswalt chose his words carefully. “With all due respect, I’ve heard a lot of rumors regarding you, Mr. Solly. And judging by the heat your
employees
bring onto themselves, there may be some truth there. Frankly, we might have conflicting interests, for me to be working for you. I can’t look the other way for you. And I can’t coax others into doing that either.”
 

“Really? Why is this?”

“It’s wrong.”

Solly laughed. “Really? Is killing wrong?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do, just yesterday?”

“I didn’t have a choice, it was self-defence. It was justified.”

“It was more than that. It was survival. And there’s no right or wrong there—just raw instinct and reaction. That’s why I chose you.
You
have that instinct to survive, just like me…just trying to survive in this evil cesspool.”

“I can’t uphold the law by turning a blind eye when convenient.”

“Oswalt—I’ve done my homework on you. A divorce three years ago...two kids…sold the house. Alimony and child support payments. Your job pays an acceptable salary, but it wasn’t designed to support precarious situations like yours. Is this the lifestyle you want for yourself? Living with the bare minimum?”

Through his window, Oswalt looked down at the city below him. “No…it’s not.”

“Then work for me. I will pay you double what you’re making now, and that’s in addition to your current salary—for doing more or less the same job.”

Oswalt’s hand was shaking. Oswalt had his faults, but he was no criminal. Then he remembered yesterday morning…how he killed that man. The rage on the man’s face…and the fear he felt in that moment. It could have just as easily been him on the receiving end of a fatal bullet. He looked around his apartment again. Despite it being small and cluttered with furniture and junk, it felt empty. His life was nowhere near where he wanted it to be.

“Mr. Solly?”

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to hear for now. I’ll be in touch.”

Oswalt put down the phone with his still-shaking hand. He reached into his cupboard and pulled out a bottle of scotch and a large shot glass. He filled the shot glass with the scotch and drove it back. His hand was now still. Oswalt placed the empty shot glass on his counter and stared though the crystal facets with piercing focus.

***

Saturday, October 9th, 1999

6:15 a.m.

Scorcher, Gregory Pike, and Samuel Turly had taken a trip out to rural Pennsylvania. They were standing on a lavish estate that was virtually isolated and complete with a private runway. The land belonged to a man in his late thirties, who was standing alongside the trio, smoking a fat joint. He had long, dirty-blonde hair, and a scruffy beard that clashed with his tailor-made vanilla suit. Scorcher surveyed the sweeping landscape. “I’m impressed.”

Lomez nodded and blew out a puff of smoke. “Not too shabby, right? Plenty of fresh air, peace and quiet...” Lomez was heir to the fortune of the drug kingpin infamously known as Farmer Loxo. Loxo was at the height of power during the ‘60s and ‘70s, heading one of the largest drug empires in the Western Hemisphere.

Turly shook Lomez’s hand. “We appreciate you letting us use your runway, Lomez; we needed some privacy for this.”

“No worries, man. Anything to help out the cause.” Lomez took a long drag from his joint.

Scorcher eyed him curiously. “I’m surprised that someone like you decided to get a place out here in the middle of nowhere.”

“What’s surprising about it?”

“You have sex, drugs, and rock & roll written all over you.”

“Well, this here is my sanctuary—where I surrender to peace and tranquility. Hell, I checked out of modern society years ago. Just didn’t have the patience or conformity for it.” Lomez laughed. “But don’t get me wrong—now my place in L.A.,
hooooo
buddy. That’s where the crap really hits the fan in excess.” Lomez pointed the blunt between his fingers at Scorcher. “And I can tell you’re one that appreciates life in excess, Mr. Scorcher.”

Scorcher’s amber eye lit up. “Oh really?”

“Whatever you see in me, I can see in you. It’s like kindred spirits, man. We can just detect each other. Next time I’m back in L.A. and the situation is poppin’ off, you’re coming, my friend. I’ll take you to the ends of the earth and back.”

“And your friends won’t mind this mug?”

“Hell no! Mind you, I’ve seen some strange-looking cats, and you are, by far, the strangest in the clowder.” Lomez looked Scorcher over and appeared utterly entranced by Scorcher’s hair. “But this right here, bloody gorgeous—that’s genuine rock-star hair. It’s like cotton candy, man!” Pike stared at Lomez and Scorcher, slack-jawed. “Can you do the rock-star tongue? Something tells me you can do it!” Lomez waited in anticipation. “Yes, buddy! YES! Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Scorcher wore a devilish fanged smile, with his tongue protruding half a foot out of his mouth. “Look at that thing, man. It’s like a python! My buddy Gene would be real proud of you.” Pike rubbed his face. He caught Turly’s eye and they both communicated their tedium to each other without saying a word.

The inane banter continued for several minutes until a low rumbling drew their attention upward. Turly’s eyes narrowed. “Here they come.” A private jet was closing in fast. Scorcher and the others were beckoned towards the runway by the roar of twin engines, which was growing exponentially louder by the second. The aircraft’s tires screeched along the asphalt as the jet touched down for landing. Pike was getting irritated by all the noise that was being generated. He was still tired from his lack of sleep, having driven from Queens to Manhattan in the middle of the night, only to realize he had to drive out here. Frankly, he didn’t want to be here at all.

The plane had landed. The party on the ground waited for the passengers to disembark. The door of the jet folded down to reveal stairs and four men walked down them. The man to exit the plane last was at least a foot taller than the other three. He wore a deep-blue fitted suit that strained against his muscular frame. His size was impressive, but what was even more striking was his blood red hair. This was the man from Thailand slated to be Bruce’s executioner.

Turly smiled with satisfaction. “Hachiuma, I presume. Welcome to America.” He extended a hand but Hachiuma merely nodded in acknowledgement. He surveyed his new environment and sniffed the air.

Scorcher sized up the newcomer. “So...you’re the one that’s going to get rid of Bruce Kasparov, eh?”

Hachiuma looked at Scorcher’s mess of a face but there was no reaction to it. “That’s right.”

“And who are your three friends?”

“Thai mercenaries. They will be aiding me during my stay here. They do not speak English, and as such, they will only be communicating through me. As formidable as they are with firearms, their use of bladed weaponry is even more impressive.” Unlike Hachiuma, the clothes of these three men were dirty and ragged.

Pike sneered at the mercenary trio. “They look like peasants.” The moment Pike said this, the mercenary closest to him jumped straight up and delivered a quick backfist to Pike’s jaw. Pike rubbed his mouth and hid his anger with a smile. “Well, they
’re
quick, I’ll give them that...and incredibly ballsy for such puny men.” Pike winced; the blow stung a lot more than he had expected. “I thought you said they don’t understand English?”

Hachiuma’s eyes narrowed on Pike. “They don’t need to understand the language to know when they are being insulted.” Pike knew his place and chose not to raise his hands to his attacker. Lomez attempted to break the tension by offering the newcomers a puff, which they flat-out refused.

“Alright then, we need to head back to New York,” Turly informed. “I have a sedan here, and Pike came in the cargo truck. Two of the mercs can go with Pike; the rest with me.”

Hachiuma’s eyes flashed. “A cargo truck; that’s good. Because we brought a lot of cargo.”

“Is that so?”

“Weapons—a lot of them. Leftover surplus from the Kosovo War. Akira made arrangements for them to be delivered here through us.”

Scorcher’s amber eye lit up. “
Excellent
. We had a minor setback yesterday. These weapons are
exactly
what we need right now.”

Hachiuma nodded. “Well, it’s all in the plane, so let’s get loading.”

***

Saturday, October 9th, 1999

Manhattan, New York, 8:15 p.m.

Peter Santos prayed silently in the empty church. He had been attending Saint Christopher’s since his childhood at the orphanage. It was a small church that seldom received parishioners during the regularly scheduled mass times. Times of no service left the church virtually deserted.

Peter lifted his head and leaned back in the pew. He spotted Father Christy standing by the altar, watching him with a faint smile. Father Christy was in his early sixties, and his last ten years were spent as the priest of Saint Christopher’s. He was bespectacled and had thinning grey hair. Santos waved at Father Christy, who walked over and sat down next to him. “How are you, Peter?”

Santos shrugged. “Given the circumstances, Father, I’m okay, I suppose.”

“Anything you’d like to discuss?”

“Nothing I haven’t already discussed with God.” Santos looked around the empty church. “Saturday evenings are always serene.”

Father Christy followed Santos’ wandering eyes. “You just may be the only person that I’ve seen choose to spend a Saturday evening in this church.”

“You’d be surprised, Father. Before you came to this church, it was quite popular. Not anymore though.”

Father Christy smiled. “So, am I to be blamed for the decline in attendance?”

Santos laughed. “Don’t worry, it was happening well before you came. People’s mindsets and priorities are changing with the times, I suppose.” These words produced a mutual pang of melancholy for both Peter and Father Christy. For a moment, the pair sat in silence in the empty church. Santos managed to force a smile. “So, how is the Walker house these days?”

Father Christy shrugged. “Well, it’s still open; a few new arrivals. A double-edged sword, I suppose. Foster care and group homes... We’ve expanded our reach thanks to the Legion donations. We purchased a neighbouring property as well.”

“You’re doing a great thing for this community, Father.”

“Well, Deacon Francis is the one living at the Walker house now. He keeps everything shipshape.”

“Yeah, I got the pleasure to meet him a while back. You chose well placing him in charge.”

“That I did.” Father Christy smiled. “Still fighting the good fight?”

“You can say that...but I don’t know how good my fight has been lately.” Santos scratched his chin. “On second thought, you don’t mind if I bend your ear for a few minutes, do you?”

Father Christy shook his head. “You know I always welcome anyone to share what’s on their mind.”

Santos smiled appreciatively. “Well, the thing is, lately I’ve been second guessing myself. My actions. I have no problem if this only affects me, but when it affects my colleagues…”

“Your fellow crusaders in the Legion?”

“Yes, exactly. Nothing too serious; no life threatening injuries or anything like that. But that’s just out of sheer luck. My missteps could lead someone to just that.” Santos looked up to the roof and sighed. “I’m not sure I know how to deal with it.”

“Well, with all things in life, Peter, when we find strength through God, these burdens become more manageable. When you trust yourself, others can trust you as well.”

“I trust that I try to do the right thing, but when I do, it seems to backfire and lead to another problem.”

“No one can predict with absolute certainty how their actions will play out over time. But does this mean you shouldn’t act at all? Life is a learning process. With the help of your friends and family, you can at least mitigate these unforeseen problems. But to do this, communication is essential, Peter.”

Santos thought about Father Christy’s advice. “You’re absolutely right, Father. Communication is what’s needed.” He rapped his fingers on the pew in front of him.
Better teamwork and less bickering amongst ourselves.
Santos stood up and extended a hand to Father Christy. “Thanks for the talk, Father. Helpful as always.”

***

Queens, New York

Oswalt Fletcher was wearing a beaten-up suit and had doused his hair with gel in a vain attempt to keep it tamed. His good arm was inside the suit sleeve, whereas the right side portion of the suit jacket simply draped over his sling. He was inside an upscale restaurant far beyond his budget. He approache
d
the maître d’hôtel standing behind the podium.
The tight-lipped man looked at him condescendingly. “Can I
help
you?”