 
                       --===NOTHING PERSONAL===--
 
Nothing Personal
 
 
 
    *Christ, it stinks here,* Scott thought.  He was walking
through the landfill, waiting for his meet.  *Why did Rick want to meet
*here*, of all places?*
 
    Security was the answer, of course.  It had to be.  Scott
hadn't seen anyone on his drive in, nor on his ten minute walk. 
Whatever had brought him out here, it had to be interesting.  Rick was
one of the younger agents in the agency, hadn't even been out on a case
yet.  Well, maybe that was it.  If he wanted advice, he wouldn't want
to be overheard asking Scott.  Not these days, anyway.
 
    Scott Marks had been the leading star for the agency's
"removal" directorate for years.  However, he'd fallen out of favor of
late.  *Pricks.  They wanted me to send a message, then bitch because I
did it!*
 
    He saw Rick in the distance, standing with his legs planted
firmly, almost in military-rest posture.  He hadn't known the boy had
military training.  As he approached, Scott could see the nervousness
radiating from his colleague.  *Guy wound up that tight, they can't
send him into the field.  He's liable to shoot his own foot off rather
than cap the guy.*
 
    Finally, he stepped up to Rick, and turned to face the same
direction.  They were looking over a large pile of refuse that was
rotting, here in the middle of nowhere.  It was a cool, breezy day, and
Rick had his jacket fully zipped up.  Scott had not worn one.  He had
grown up in Buffalo, and while the day was breezy, it was hardly cold.
 
    "What's on your mind, Sport?" Scott said, annoying his
colleague with the patronizing nickname.
 
    Rick shuffled a little.  "I need a bit of advice."
 
    "Oh?  On what?"  Scott congratulated himself on judging
this meeting correctly.
 
    "They've given me my first assignment, and I'm not real
confident in my ability to carry it out."
 
    "It's always that way the first time.  You know, you never
forget the first one.  But sooner or later, it becomes routine, you
know?  Hey, that's the job, and if the asshole wanted to stay alive, he
shouldn't have pissed us off.  I've been doing this ten years, now, and
I can't say as there has been a single case that's bugged me."
 
    "Even at the time?"
 
    Scott pursed his lips to think it over.  Finally, he said,
"No, can't think of any that bothered me right off.  You know, I came
into the agency from a police force.  I'd seen my share of bullshit. 
Someone wants to screw with us, and then thinks he can just waltz away,
well, we're here to teach them differently, you know?"
 
    "Maybe.  We didn't do this kind of thing in the Army.  I
was a good shot, had good leadership skills.  That's why the agency
asked for me, I guess.  But it's my first gig, and I'm feeling a
little... well, hesitant."
 
    "Understandable, I suppose.  But you know, after the first
job, it gets a lot easier.  Once you've got it behind you, you know,
once you're a *killer*, then, adding another one to the list, it just
doesn't seem to matter anymore."  *At least, it doesn't to me.*
 
    "Really?  You mean all I have to do is get through this
first job, and then it shouldn't bother me anymore?"
 
    "That's about the way it worked for me.  Sure, you get the
butterflies each time, but I tell you, that first job, it's the hardest
one.  Pulling that trigger, or however you choose to do it, that first
time, knowing that it means lights-out for some other person, that can
get to you.  Not everyone's cut out for this line of work.  That first
job usually tells you if you are."
 
    "What's the key to it, then?"
 
    "Remember it's not something you're doing for fun.  It's a
*job*.  This is our business, our career.  You aren't doing it for
personal gain.  It's *nothing personal*, it's just the job.  Someone's
got to do it, and that someone is you.  If not you, then it'll be
someone else.  That person, they're going to die.  Whether you do it,
or I do it, or Frank, JoAnne, Tom... sooner or later, that person is
going to be dead.  Might as well just do it and move on."
 
    "I see your point.  The first time, though... it's a tough
thing to get over.  I mean, I was trained in the Army to kill on the
battlefield, ya know?  But, this isn't a battlefield, it's just one guy
whacking another guy, and the vic probably won't even know it's coming."
 
    "Best way to pull it off, my friend."
 
    Rick hesitated.  He turned to look at Scott, with a
question on his face.  "What was your first time like?"
 
    Scott paused, and looked back at Rick.  "I was scared
shitless of being caught."  Scott motioned, and they began walking in
no particular direction.
 
    "What was the job?" Rick asked, turning to walk along what
appeared to be a path.
 
    "Foreign national, doing business in-country."  Scott knew
that each officer's first job in the Removal Directorate was done on US
soil, so that the government could cover it up if the agent screwed the
pooch.  "I remember it like it was yesterday..."
 
 
 
...---=== http://netwolf.wolfpub.org ===---...
 
 
 
    "What's on your mind, Chief?" I asked, walking into the
deputy director's office.  He motioned me to have a seat, and I sank
down into the nice, comfortable chair across from him.  He tossed me a
file, across the desk.  I caught it, and opened it.
 
    "Joshua Laniere," the director answered.  "He has finally
made the error of letting his whereabouts be known.  We would like them
to be his last whereabouts."
 
    I looked at the picture of the guy in his file.  He didn't
look all that impressive.  "What's he done?" I asked, annoying the
director, who felt such questions were inappropriate.
 
    "He has decided that his religion, or what passes for it,
is more important than his country.  He's been selling arms to
terrorists for years.  There's a Paki group that he's been supplying
for the last two years with weapons bought or stolen from army
warehouses here in the States.  Is that enough for you, kid?"  

    He knew "kid" annoyed me.  He was trying to relate to me
that I didn't really "need to know" why I had to whack the guy, just
that he needed whacking. 

    "Gotcha.  Accident, message?"  I was talking about the
method of death.
 
    "We don't care, so long as you can prove he's dead."
 
    "Right.  Time frame?"
 
    "Immediately, if not sooner.  We don't know how long he'll
be in the country, or at this location.  You have seventy-two hours."
 
    *Shit.  Not much time.  Why are they pushing me so hard? 
The first job's supposed to be a fairly straightforward one.*  I got up
and left the office, the folder still in my hands.  It was the only
copy of that folder, and if the mission was a success, I would burn it
myself.  There were no records of how many subjects the Removal
Directorate had dealt with.  Only the pansies over in the CIA liked to
count coup.
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    Well, the first thing I had to do was actually get to the
location.  That required a plane flight, but luckily a shorter one,
since the agency's headquarters were in the middle of the country
rather than on a coast.  It wasn't long before I was in a car looking
at the house that the target had chosen to stay in.  He was there now;
I could see him through the window, reading the paper and acting
like... well, acting like a normal person.  Only I knew he wasn't
normal.  This cocksucker fueled the international terrorist movement
with his guns and other weapons.  If any bastard deserved to die, this
one did.  As a cop, I knew that guns don't kill people: people kill
people.  On the other hand, if it's harder for people to get a gun,
it's harder for them to kill someone with it.  Anyone who would make
that process easier, well, he didn't need to keep breathing.
 
    I watched the guy for a full day, tracking his coming and
going.  Had this job had proper setup, I'd have done this for a week,
just to fully establish a pattern, but I didn't have that luxury this
time.  I had to base my work on the single day's surveillance.  Risky? 
Hell yes.  Necessary, though.
 
    Of course, the next decision was how to do the job.  I
could do it any way I damned well pleased, since they had made no
requests of me.  It was my first job, though, and I didn't want to get
too close.  That meant that a knife or pistol was out, and none of my
martial arts training would be necessary.  So, how to do the job?
 
    I could easily have sniped the guy, but you know, that
first time... I just didn't want to see his face when it suddenly had a
big hole in the forehead.  So, no, that first job, I couldn't do it
with a gun.  It had to be something where I could stand off from it.
 
    *A bomb.*
 
    Bombs were perfectly acceptable methods of death in the
directorate.  They still are.  But what kind of bomb to use?  I mulled
over many different ideas.  Car bomb?  Too chancy, and it might kill
others.  The directorate has never liked us to incur collateral damage.
 
    What about a mail bomb?  I could dress up as a postal
carrier, steal a truck, even, and deliver a special message to this guy
via parcel-post... but no, that risked a lot.  First, if the police
caught up with me before I delivered the package, things could get very
ugly.  Of course, there was no way I could actually *mail* the bomb,
not with the atmosphere at the time.  So, really, a mail bomb, while it
was possible, wasn't an entirely desirable option.
 
    *What does that leave me?  If I can't blow up his car, or
send him a package, that really only leaves planting something in the
house.  That chair he sits in?  Rig it to blow when he sits down...* 
It was one viable option, but I didn't like it.  His time in the chair
was sporadic: I couldn't predict when he'd be there, and I needed proof
of his death.  Obviously, I couldn't obtain that proof after he was
dead.
 
    It took several hours for me to come up with the perfect
way to handle it, and I immediately headed for the nearest electronics
store to collect what I needed.  The explosives, of course, would be
sent to me special-delivery.  You can't exactly carry them around on an
airliner.  My call to the directorate was handled without fuss, and the
necessary items would be there the following day.  

    *That's cutting it a little close.*
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    "Jericho?" That was the codename for this mission.  It was
my cover name for the mission, too.  That made things a little simpler,
and while the bosses didn't always care for simple, in this case they'd
accepted the idea.
 
    "Weismuller," was the expected response, and the one I gave.
 
    "Package for you."  He handed over a thick cardboard tube,
and walked off.  I carried the tube - very carefully, mind you - back
to my rental car, and drove back to my hotel room.
 
    Once inside the hotel room, I opened the tube, and slid out
a rolled-up mat.  It very much resembled a mattress pad.  The
difference here was that the mat was made of C-4, covered in a cloth
fabric only to keep it from getting nicked during transport.  From one
end protruded a pair of wires, to which the detonator would be
attached.  I was required to provide my own detonator, but this was not
a major challenge.  I had already assembled what I needed from the
local Electronics Hut.
 
    I spent six hours assembling the device, and then I
gingerly packed the mat back into its tube, and carried all of my
equipment out to the car.  The drive to the subject's house was a
jittery one.  I'd handled explosives during training, of course, but
I'd never driven around with them in my trunk.  Every bump I hit caused
me to cringe, expecting it to be my last moment on the planet.  After
all, I was about to end a man's life; surely his version of God would
stop me, right?
 
    Well, He didn't, and I made it safely to the house.  I
pulled up just in time to see the subject leaving.  He wasn't carrying
any bags or suitcases, so I figured he wasn't moving out.  That would
be the worst possible thing to happen to me, because then I'd have to
enter the house a second time to retrieve the gear.  Not to mention it
would look bad back at HQ.
 
    I waited a full five minutes after his car pulled off.  I
couldn't wait too long, on the grounds that he might be making a quick
trip to the grocery store or something.  I opened the trunk and pulled
out the gear.  I was nervous as all hell, now.  I closed the trunk very
quietly, not wanting to make *any* noise that might cause a neighbor to
look out the window.  I trotted down and across the street, trying not
to look too conspicuous.  *Right, slick.  Like everyone walks around
with a big tube and a duffel.*  Well, it couldn't be helped.
 
    The front door was not a real struggle to open, not with
the tools I was carrying.  The trick was having to look for tell-tales:
small things, like a hair left in a certain spot, that would tell the
subject that I had been there.  I didn't spot any, so either he was
devilishly clever, or a fool.  I preferred to consider it the latter,
on the grounds that if he was devilishly clever, it made *me* look bad.
 
    I finished my sweep for tell-tales, and then hurried to the
bedroom.  Here, there was a slight problem.  The size of the mat I was
carrying was for a single bed.  However, this was a double bed.  I
hadn't considered that he might like a larger bed.  *Dammit.*  Thinking
quickly, I realized that there was a phone by the bed, and it would be
easy to make sure which side of the mattress he was on.  I slipped the
bomb-pad between the mattress and box spring, smoothing it out so that
it lay flat between them.  It was hidden nicely by the sheets.  

    Next, I pulled out the detonation device.  It was nothing
more than a battery hooked to an audio-pickup circuit.  I quickly wired
the device, and then carefully connected it to the wires on the
mattress, slipping the detonator under the bed, and the wires between
the bed and wall.  Now, as soon as the bomb heard the correct tone, it
would go off.  I had also included a separate RF circuit, on the
grounds that it was always a good idea to have a backup.
 
    It was a few minutes later that I heard a car door slamming
outside.  My heart rate doubled in the next half-second.  I fairly
leaped to the window, to see some woman coming up the walk.  She rang
the doorbell twice, but of course, I wasn't stupid enough to answer
it.  She then wrote a note, and walked back to her car, driving off. 
My heart was still going a mile a minute as I watched her leave.  The
tension was starting to get to me, and it was time to get the hell out
of there.
 
    Slipping quietly out the door, I looked at the note.  It
didn't imply that the woman would be back, and that was good: I didn't
need *that* kind of complication tonight.  I hurriedly closed the door,
and made sure that everything looked normal.  I moved back down the
street to my car, putting the bag and tube away in the trunk, again not
making any unnecessary noise, and then I drove off.  This mission
required a nighttime operation, and so I couldn't sit there for the
next four or six hours waiting.
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    It was actually eight hours later when the bastard got
home.  I knew he'd be a little late: the note had been an invitation to
dinner, after all.  But shit, it was one in the morning now.  I waited
until I saw the bedroom light go on, and then I turned on the camera.
 
    It was a small unit, and I'd hidden it on the bookshelf in
his bedroom.  Not nearly good enough for long-term surveillance, I
didn't figure he'd spot it with the amount of time he had left to him. 
He didn't even go near the bookcase, and he turned the light off after
crawling into bed.  The camera was showing me nothing of use now, but
that was to be expected.  One of the items that it came with was a
bright light.  I wouldn't kick that on until I did something else,
though.
 
    Picking up my cell phone, I dialed a number.  That number
was transferred no less than six times before it was finally routed to
the place I wanted it to go.  It was a full three seconds before I
heard it start ringing.
 
    Some short moment after that, I heard, "Hello?" in a
somewhat groggy voice.  Apparently Mr. Laniere managed to go to sleep
quickly.
 
    "Mr. Laniere?" I asked into the voice-changing device
connected to the phone.
 
    "Who is this?" he asked, now suspicious.
 
    "Joshua Laniere?" I asked again, having gotten his full
attention.
 
    "Yeah, look, who is this?"
 
    Without answering him, I flipped a switch on the remote for
the camera.  The tungsten bulb flared to life, bathing the room in
light, and allowing me to see my target.  Turning back to the phone, I
said to him, "You have made some rather unwise decisions in your life,
Mr. Laniere."
 
    "Go to hell, asshole," he said, trying to shield his eyes
from the really bright white light.  "I don't know what you think
you're up to, but you have no idea who you're screwing with!"
 
    "Oh, but I do, Mr. Laniere.  You are a gun-runner, a Muslim
pretender, and a traitor."
 
    "How dare you defame my religion!"
 
    "How many drinks did you have with that lady tonight, Mr.
Laniere?  And what did you do to her?  Those things are against Allah,
my friend.  And shortly he will explain that to you himself."
 
    "How do you know what I... what do you mean by that?"  My
last comment had finally gotten through to him.
 
    "I mean, Mr. Laniere, that your government knows where you
are."
 
    I could see, on the TV screen I had receiving the camera's
feed, that his arm came down just then.  The look on his face was
ghostly pale.
 
    "You can't," he said, in shock, obviously.
 
    "Why not?  You have caused the deaths of many.  Why can I
not cause the death of one?"
 
    "I did what my religion demanded!"
 
    "No, Mr. Laniere, you did what your greed demanded.  If
your religion had anything to do with it, I would not have had to wait
for you for so long this evening.  I do hope you enjoyed yourself."
 
    "You can't," he whined.
 
    "Mr. Laniere, what are you worried about?  If you are
right, and I am wrong, then there are seventy virgins waiting to
receive you in paradise.  On the other hand, if I am right and you are
wrong, then what awaits you is something... rather less pleasant.  Is
it possible, Mr. Laniere, that you are concerned with the rightness of
your actions?"
 
    "Screw you!"
 
    "That, also, would be against your religion, Mr. Laniere. 
I'm sorry that I cannot stay and chat with you, but I do have other
things to be doing.  Could you do me a favor, please?  Could you hold
the phone away from your head?"
 
    "No..."  It wasn't a rejection of my request as much as it
was a statement of despair.  Besides, the volume of the tone that would
go through the phone would pierce his eardrum if he left the phone
against his head for any length of time.
 
    As I reached for the button, my hand began to shake.  It
was finally sinking in that what I was about to do would truly end
someone's life.  I had never been in a shooting incident on the police
force, or this would probably have been much easier.  My finger was
wagging in the air almost as if it was accusing the button it was
trying to press.
 
    Finally, with a deep breath and a consideration of the
dirtbag this guy was, I steadied my hand, and stabbed the button.  I
heard the tone, and a loud scream of pain.  I could not watch the
television, but the VCR would record the event.
 
    As the phone came away from Mr. Laniere's ear, the piercing
tone filled the room.  The audio-pickup circuit on the bomb kicked in,
and suddenly there was a loud boom echoing across the street.  I hung
up my phone, and turned off the TV.  Then, one last thing to do.  I
pressed a recessed button on the camera remote, and another small bang
was heard as its self-destruct mechanism was activated.  Having
completed my task for the evening, I calmly drove away.  As I was
several blocks from his house at the time of the explosion, no one
would comment on my lack of interest.
 
    *Well, that wasn't so bad, after all.*
 
 
 
...---=== http://netwolf.wolfpub.org ===---...
 
 
 
    As Scott finished up his story, Rick was staring at him,
somewhat curiously.
 
    "What?"
 
    "It was really that easy for you?  I mean, just, 'boom',
bye-bye birdie?"
 
    "Pretty much, yeah.  I suppose part of it is the outlook
you get from being a cop.  You see all the shit, and you don't get to
do anything about it.  This way, I get to do the thing that all cops
fantasize about: blowing away the bad guy."
 
    "But why'd you spend so much time talkin' to the guy?  Why
not just wake him up and blow the bomb?"
 
    "It just seemed a little rude to send the guy to see God
without letting him know."
 
    "I suppose.  I don't think the first time'll be as easy for
me as it seems to have been for you, though."
 
    "Maybe.  Maybe not.  But I think you're worrying over it
too much."
 
    "Well, the job they've given me... well, it's a little...
delicate, y'know?  I mean, it's not your usual kind of target."
 
    "Delicate?  I've had a few of those."
 
    "How do you deal with them?  I mean, sometimes your mind
just says you shouldn't be doin' this kind of thing."
 
    "Yeah, I can recall one or two like that.  The one that
really stands out was a woman."
 
    "They made you kill a woman?  I thought they left those to
JoAnne."
 
    "She was out of the country on another assignment.  This
lady had to be dealt with quick.  She'd gathered some information on
the directorate, and was about to break the story on goddamned CNN."
 
    "Holy shit.  I never heard about that."
 
    "Well, of course not.  She's dead, and the information she
had was in the computer she carried with her, which sits very safely
back at headquarters now."
 
    "How did you... I mean, shit.  A woman?  I don't know if I
could do a woman."
 
    "She's just another target.  You have to stop thinking,
'man' or 'woman' or 'senator' or even 'terrorist'.  They're all
*targets*.  Nothing more, nothing less."
 
    "Yeah, I get ya.  How did that job go, by the way?"
 
    "It was a unique experience for me."
 
 
 
...---=== http://netwolf.wolfpub.org ===---...
 
 
 
    I was waiting in the bar for her, and I'd been there for a
half-hour already.  Why is it that women refuse to be on time for
anything?  Hell, maybe she forgot to sharpen her fangs.  She was a
reporter, after all.
 
    She was forty-five minutes late by the time she showed up. 
I didn't motion to her; if she couldn't figure out who I was, then her
information was a lot shakier than we had been led to believe.
 
    Unfortunately, she walked right to me, after ordering a
drink from the bar.  She slipped into the seat across from me, and I
took a moment to appraise her.  She had a nice body, long black hair,
and piercing green eyes.  If I hadn't known she was a shark in sheep's
clothing, I'd probably have tried to bed her.  But not tonight.
 
    "Mr. Marks," she said quietly.  "Good evening.  I'm Carolyn
Murray."
 
    "Ms. Murray," I greeted.  "What can I do for you?"
 
    "You said you were willing to corroborate the story I'm
putting together, and that you could, perhaps, add some significant
details."
 
    I nodded, taking a sip of my own drink as hers arrived.  As
soon as the waitress left, I said, "I can, but I'm curious about
something.  Your information seems especially good.  Why do you need
further evidence?"
 
    She sighed.  "My damned editor won't accept the story
without inside confirmation.  I've got to have this all together by
tomorrow morning, or they're dumping the story."
 
    "I see.  Well, we can't discuss this sort of thing here,
not in public.  I'm taking a risk just being seen here with you.  So,
your place, or mine?"
 
    She frowned at me for a moment, trying to decide how much
sexual innuendo was in the comment.  Finally, she said, "Yours."
 
    I think she figured that I wouldn't do anything to her in
my own apartment, since then all the evidence would be there.  How
could she know that the apartment I was taking her to was rented by the
directorate, through four different dummy corporations and a former NSA
employee?  She couldn't.
 
    The drive over was uneventful.  She followed me in her
car.  It was obvious she didn't trust me.  But she didn't *not* trust
me enough to live through the night.  When we entered the apartment,
she chose the chair closest to the door.  Her purse sat in her lap, and
her body was tense.  I smiled at her as I took off my coat, thus making
it obvious that I was not carrying a gun.
 
    "Take it easy, Ms. Murray.  This is business.  You *do*
have my money?"
 
    Pulling a large envelope out of her purse, she set it on
the coffee table, and slid it toward me.
 
    "Fifty thousand, as agreed."
 
    I opened the envelope, and made a great show of counting
the money.  Once finished, I slid it back into the envelope, and set it
back on the table.  I sat down across from her, and said, "What do you
want to know?"
 
    For the next two hours, I answered every question she had. 
Oh, sure, three-quarters of what I told her was complete bullshit, but
she'd never have the time to verify that.  What I noticed was that she
had fully relaxed after about the first half-hour, and she wasn't
concerned with what I was going to do to her.
 
    About fifteen minutes after her purse finally made it to
the floor, I asked, "Do you want something to drink?"
 
    "Water will be fine, thank you."
 
    I nodded as I rose.  I'm sure she thought that anything I
might put in her drink would show up in water.  Wrong.  It took me all
of three seconds to dissolve the ampoule of liquid into her drink, and
return with it.  I had a soda for myself.
 
    "Now, Ms. Murray, I need to know some things for my own
safety."
 
    "Okay," she said warily, taking a sip of her water,
immediately followed by another.  One of the benefits of this
particular chemical was that it enhanced a person's thirst, thus
leading them to their own death.
 
    "Where are you keeping this information?"
 
    "On my computer," she said.  "It's encrypted, and the files
are hidden."
 
    "You have a good alarm system on your home?"
 
    "The computer's not at home.  It's in my car.  It's a
laptop."
 
    "I see.  And you are keeping a backup somewhere, right?"
 
    "No."
 
    I acted very upset.  "NO?  What the hell happens if your
laptop gets stolen?  I don't want to be going through this kind of
danger for nothing!  And I sure as *hell* don't want to have to tell it
to you twice!"
 
    "No one knows that I keep it on my laptop.  They think it's
all in my notebook."  She waved her binder at me, but I could see her
notes from tonight occupied the very first pages of the book.  I could
also see that the drug was beginning to take effect, as her hands
dropped rather hard onto her lap.  Time to wrap this up, and quickly.
 
    I leaned back, seemingly satisfied.  "I see.  Very clever. 
So, your laptop, and that folder, are the only records of our
directorate?"
 
    "Yes," she said, her voice slightly slurred.
 
    "Is something the matter?" I asked, some concern showing on
my face.
 
    "Can't... feel my... feet."
 
    "No, I'm sure you can't," I said, my voice growing somewhat
harsh.  I stood up and took the notebook from her now-limp hands.  "And
soon you'll feel a whole lot less."  Her eyes registered confusion, and
then comprehension, as her breath started to become ragged.
 
    "I don't live here," I said, telling her how foolish she
had been.  "The directorate rents this place.  Of course, no one will
know that, either.  When they find your body, it will be pumped full of
drugs.  Your computer?  We'll have that.  And your notebook.  You will
be dead, and discredited.  Your evidence, which you so cleverly hid,
will be gone.  Didn't it even *occur* to you that the Removal
Directorate would want you... removed?"
 
    She couldn't answer me, and I watched with some very small
twinge of regret as her last breath leaked out between her lips.  With
its passing also went the chance that the public would find out about
us, and that was what had been necessary.
 
 
 
...---=== http://netwolf.wolfpub.org ===---...
 
 
 
    "Damn, man.  Sounds like you slicked your way through that
one," Rick said in some awe.  Scott was gratified to see that he could
still impress the recruits.
 
    "Yeah, well, you know.  Sometimes things fall into place. 
She was stupid.  The only way she ran across us was by accident, she
was dumb enough to believe I was going to tell her all about us, and
then she started to trust me.  You know, if you can pull off that last
one, killing them is pretty damn easy."
 
    "How often do you try to get in close like that?  I mean,
get them to trust you so that you can slip 'em a drug, or knife 'em or
something?"
 
    "Not often.  I don't much care to get my hands wet, so to
speak."
 
    "Well, what's your preferred method?"
 
    "I'm a bit like you.  I prefer a gun.  Former cop, just
comes natural to me.  Generally, though, I'll use a sniper rifle to
take them down from a good long way away."
 
    "Still, it makes a lot of noise."
 
    "That depends on how good your silencer is."  Scott grinned
at him.
 
    "Don't you lose a lot of power from the shot that way?"
 
    "That depends on how good your silencer is," Scott
repeated, trying to get it through this boy's head.
 
    "Oh.  Was that how you did the kid?"
 
    "Yes."  Scott's eyes darkened.  "The kid" had been Scott's
last job.
 
    "What went wrong on that job?"
 
    "The pansies back at HQ went wrong."
 
    "What do you mean?"
 
    "I mean, the job was executed to perfection.  It's not my
fault they didn't like the result..."
 
 
 
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    "Marks, get in here!"
 
    I rose and followed the chief into his office.  I knew I
wasn't in trouble, but he was sure as hell pissed about something.
 
    "What's up, boss?"  I didn't figure he needed anything more
to be annoyed about, so I didn't call him 'chief'.
 
    "Pyotr Androvich."
 
    "The terrorist?"
 
    "That's the bastard.  We just found out he's gotten access
to bio-weapons."  The chief tossed me a file.  "That's all we've got. 
You've got a week to line up on him.  Once you do, call in.  They want
us to count coup on this one."
 
    "Aw, shit.  What asshole thought that up?"
 
    "Your Commander-in-Chief."
 
    "Shit."
 
    "Yeah, well, whatever.  Take the video transmission gear
with you.  We want to make sure this one is done, and they apparently
have reason to have visual proof of it being done."
 
    "Okay, but I hate these jobs."  I'd only done two others
this way.  It made things more difficult than they needed to be.
 
    "No one said you had to like it.  We only said you had to
*do* it."
 
    I rose, knowing a dismissal when I heard one.  "Yes, sir."
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    Well, finding the bastard was no easy job.  I hate working
in Russia.  I don't fit in there, at all.  But, I finally found him,
after five days of searching.  Of course, I only had a few places to
look in.  We apparently had gotten some good intel about this mutt,
though I didn't know from whom.  Nor did I especially care very much. 
Right now, what mattered was that I'd found him, and that I was setting
up all the necessary added equipment for the job.
 
    Sneaking all this shit into the country had not been easy. 
It had required a submarine trip, of all things.  Boy, wasn't that
fun.  Reminded me of the old days, only this time there wasn't much of
a border guard to get in my way.
 
    Well, anyway, I was sitting on a hill, about a thousand
yards from this guy's home.  He lived out in the sticks, a million
miles from anything you could call civilization.  I assembled my rifle,
including the silencer.  I wondered why the hell they'd asked me to use
a silencer, out here in the middle of noplace, but hey, that's what
they wanted.
 
    Setting up the camera equipment was far more annoying than
assembling my rifle.  The gear was bulky, and it was a pain in the ass
to deal with.  I bet those CIA pukes never have to deal with this shit.
 
    With the camera in place, and the satellite uplink
transmitting the signal back to HQ, I donned my comm-link.  This was
like some damned TV production.  I was waiting for the director to give
me the go-ahead to blow some bastard's head off.
 
    There he was, in my sights as I waited.  I kept track of
the wind as a normal part of my routine for such jobs, and today there
was nearly no wind at all.  It was the perfect day, and the guy was
standing in the open.  *What the hell are they waiting for?*
 
    Well, after another five minutes, I hear in my ear, "Line
up for shot."  That's the cue; they're finally ready for me to pop this
guy.  I snug the rifle against my shoulder, and line my eye up with the
scope.  The target's head is centered in my view.  Noting the slight
wind, I adjust slightly to the left.  My finger reaches for the
trigger, but before I can even touch it, things go to hell.
 
    "Abort mission!  Abort mission!  Abort mission!"
 
    *Shit!* I swore to myself.  I didn't dare say it out loud. 
My head came up from my rifle, my finger never having reached the
trigger.
 
    "Please clarify, Central," I said into my comm-link.
 
    "No clarification available Ceres.  Abort mission, return
to fallback position."
 
    "Understood."  *Shit.*
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    Six hours later, back in the safety of my anonymous hut in
the middle of nowhere, I was on the satcom with HQ.
 
    "So, what the hell is going on?  The job was perfectly
lined up, I was ready, it was safe, it was deniable.  Why pull me off?"
 
    "Apparently, someone decided that we need this guy alive
for something or other."
 
    "Oh, that's just great.  That's just damn peachy.  *Now*
what?"
 
    "We still need to send this guy a message, that we don't
like his activities.  We've learned that tomorrow afternoon, he will
have his wife and child visiting him."
 
    "So?"
 
    "We want you to kill the child.  *We* will make the phone
call, to let him know what is going on.  Again, you need to do this
according to our timetable, and we want the video set up to record the
shot."
 
    *Oh, shit.*  It wasn't that I minded killing someone other
than the real target, but to have to kill a kid... well, even I don't
like that very much.
 
    "Acknowledge your instructions, Ceres," the voice on the
other end of the satcom said coldly.
 
    "Acknowledged, Central.  Will be ready at 1300 Lima,
tomorrow."
 
    "Very good.  Out."
 
 
 
-----
 
 
 
    The next day, I had to crawl my way through a foot of new
snow, to the same spot I'd reached yesterday.  I spent *another* hour
setting up the damned video equipment, and then I took an hour to clean
and assemble my rifle.  With all that finished, I settled down into the
snow to wait.  It was only 12:30, so it would be at least a half-hour
before Central was calling me.
 
    Shortly after I settled down, a car pulled up.  The target
came out of the house to greet his visitors.  Stepping out of the front
of the car was a woman, obviously his wife.  From my perch, she looked
like a pretty attractive babe.  Out of the back of the car...
 
    *That kid can't be more than three or four!  Shit, they
want me to pop a toddler?*  As I said, even I have my limits.  This was
just something that I couldn't put up with.  That kid hadn't done
anything to my country yet.  There were other ways to send a message to
this guy without whacking the kid.
 
    I watched them all through my binoculars.  The little girl
went to play on the swing in the back yard.  I'd seen enough kids just
like her back at home.  Watching her, I came up with a plan.  Knowing
the way these people think, she'd grow up like her father, a terrorist
fighting my country.  But I still couldn't cap her.  There was,
however, something I could do.
 
    It was another hour yet before Central contacted me.
 
    "Ceres, camera on."
 
    I reached over and activated the system.  It was
electronically slaved to my scope, so that it saw what I saw, only with
a slightly wider angle.  I brought my rifle up, and centered my scope
on the target's head.  There was no point in giving the assholes back
at Central any warning about what I was going to do; they'd only order
me not to.
 
    "Prepare for shot," said the voice.  I settled myself in,
to keep the rifle steady.
 
    "Conversation to follow.  You do not have the ability to
enter the conversation.  When you hear our side say, 'we have a message
for you,' you will fire.  Acknowledge."
 
    "Acknowledged.  'we have a message for you.'  Understood."
 
    The line clicked and beeped for a while, and then I heard
ringing.  Soon, I heard the target's voice come online.
 
    "Da?" the man said in Russian.
 
    "Pyotr?  This is Andrew," the American said, in English.
 
    "Who is this?" Pyotr said, switching to heavily accented
English.
 
    "I work at the American Embassy in Moscow, Pyotr.  We've
been tracking you for some time now."
 
    "Is that so?  What do you want?" Pyotr asked.
 
    "We know that you have been bringing terror to the United
States, Pyotr.  We know that recently, you've obtained weapons of mass
destruction, and you plan to attack us again."
 
    "Perhaps I do, perhaps I do not.  But you cannot prove it."
 
    "Maybe not, Pyotr.  But we have a message for you."
 
    At that point, I quickly shifted the aim on my scope.  I'd
had the little girl in my sights throughout the conversation.  At the
moment, her back was to me, and that was very good for what I wanted. 
I could have done a frontal shot, but it would have been less sure.  I
moved the crosshairs from the center of her head down to the middle of
her lower back.  Applying gentle pressure, I slowly squeezed the
trigger, exhaling and waiting...
 
    *Yes!*  The rifle recoiled slightly as the bullet left the
gun.  A very short moment later, the little girl collapsed to the
ground, but it was clear that she was not dead.
 
    "Next time, Pyotr," the voice of Andrew went on, obviously
oblivious to what I'd done different from the plan, 'It could be your
wife."
 
    The conversation broke off before I heard Pyotr's
response.  I could see him running to his daughter's side, anyway.
 
    Central screamed in my ear, "What the hell did you do?  You
were supposed to terminate the target!"
 
    I refused to answer, but instead packed up all the damn
gear, and got the hell out of there, before someone came looking for me.
 
 
 
...---=== http://netwolf.wolfpub.org ===---...
 
 
 
    "So, you crippled the kid, just to send a message?" Rick
looked at Scott in some distaste.
 
    "Hey, the kid's pop hasn't screwed with us since!  The
mission was a one-hundred-percent success.  Hey, too bad for the kid,
but at least she's still breathing.  The prisses back at HQ wanted me
to whack her all the way gone."
 
    The two men had been walking throughout their discussion,
and they had now arrived at a rather deep pit that had been cleared of
trash.  Rick stopped, and turned to Scott.
 
    "Why couldn't you just do what they asked?"
 
    "Hey, what's the deal?  You're starting to sound like those
assholes.  They wanted to send a message.  I didn't think actually
killing the kid was necessary."
 
    "So, instead you sentenced her to life in a wheelchair."
 
    "At least it's life.  Look," Scott said, getting angry.  "I
don't have to justify myself to you.  I did the job my way.  I've had
to put up with a lot of shit from the boss over it, but I'm *not *going
to stand here and take it from you!"
 
    Rick turned away from Scott, to look out over the garbage. 
Scott started to get wary as Rick unzipped his jacket  As he turned
back, Rick's hand slipped inside his jacket, pulling out a pistol.
 
    "Well, I'm afraid you won't be taking shit from anybody,
anymore."
 
    "What the hell is this?" Scott accused.
 
    "My first assignment," Rick explained, "is to take out the
cocksucker who couldn't listen to orders and do what he was told."
 
    "Jesus, man, I'm part of the agency, *your* agency!  You
can't do this!"
 
    Rick stared back at him, but suddenly, he wasn't talking
anymore.  That bothered Scott more than any words could have.
 
    "We can work something out, man.  I've got a lot of money
stashed.  You can take it.  They'll never know I'm not dead.  I can
hide out, you'll look good, and..."
 
    Rick looked at Scott as if he was a piece of meat.
 
    *No, shithead, he's looking at you as if you were a
*target*.  *Scott began to sweat heavily.
 
    Rick's silence finally unnerved Scott completely.  "Dammit,
I've spent a lot of time training you!  And you're just going to screw
me over this way?  Haven't you got *anything* to say about that?"
 
    Rick looked into Scott's eyes, gauging what, if anything,
he needed to say to him.  Finally deciding that something was
necessary, he raised his pistol to the man's head and took a deep
breath.
 
    "Nothing personal."
 
 
 
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