Kill on Command Read online

  Bridgette heard the bodyguards, but was not quick enough to make it onto the smaller ship. She had hidden too long. She watched it move towards the east from the door leading to the deck. She was shaking and realized she was trapped. In the distance, she thought she saw a little raft floating in the water, but it was so dark, she could not be sure.

  Three hundred meters to the east the assassin looked at his watch. It was 3 A.M. He could see the two remaining bodyguards lounging on the uppermost deck of the Scimitar. They were facing the bow. He did not see any other movement on the ship. He placed one of the Beretta pistols in a rubber shoulder holster. As instructed, he started the outboard motor and silently rode the waves to the stern of the Scimitar. He tied off the zodiac and looked up at the massive ship. Reaching into the duffel, he produced a rubber-encased grappling hook attached to a black climbing rope and tossed the hook up and over the ship’s railing, where it silently attached itself to the rail. He quickly and effortlessly pulled himself up. Hanging from the rope, he stopped just short of the deck and peered over the edge. Nothing. All he could hear was the sound of the ocean in the distance and the two bodyguards laughing about their evening.

  He vaulted onto the deck and made his way to a staircase leading to the upper deck.

  Vengeance had arrived.

  On a modest fishing boat five hundred meters away, the sniper watched through a high-powered scope and followed the assassin’s progress across the ship.

  The assassin silently climbed the stairs, but stopped short of the top, listened and looked over the edge of the top stair. Both guards sat with their backs to him, less than twenty feet in front of him. He silently approached, pulled out the tomahawk and held it by his left side.

  The guards had no idea he was there. They were too busy bragging about their sexual exploits.

  The sniper behind the scope smiled. These people were going to get what was coming to them.

  Taking a breath, the assassin stood directly behind the bodyguard on the left and swung the axe with tremendous force into the side of the man’s neck, nearly decapitating him. The bodyguard slumped in the chair and fell forward. The axe was buried in his neck to the spine, blood from his severed arteries sprayed into the air. The bodyguard on the right jumped and reached with his right hand for his shoulder holster and his gun. He did not have a chance to draw the weapon.

  The assassin was too fast.

  The assassin pulled a knife and with blinding speed drove the Garm through the man’s hand as he reached for the gun and into his chest. The knife missed his heart, but it was a mortal wound. The guard’s hand was pinned to his chest by the knife. The assassin removed the guard’s gun, and pointed it at him. He was paralyzed with pain. His mouth was open, but no words came out. He looked up at the assassin. What he saw was a huge man clad all in black with cold blue eyes.

  The assassin trained the weapon on the wounded guard, took the second Garm out of the sheaf, tossed the gun away and leaned forward. He held the point of the knife close to the guard’s eye.

  In Arabic, the assassin asked, “Where is the Prince?” The bodyguard hesitated. With one quick stroke, the assassin hacked off his right ear with the knife. The guard screamed.

  He continued in Arabic, “I’ll ask again. Where is the Prince?” The response was again too slow. The guard lost another ear. No more ears. He then placed the blade of the knife above the guard’s eyes and slowly made a deep cut across his forehead to the bone. Blood began running into the guard’s eyes.

  The bodyguard screamed, “The bow! The bow! He has the whole bow! Two floors down!”

  The assassin wiped both sides of the knife off on the guard’s arm and placed it back in the sheaf.

  The assassin reached down and removed the axe from neck of the other guard, then with one powerful stroke, buried the axe in the remaining guard’s head. He left the axe protruding from the man’s head, drew his Beretta and moved towards the lower decks.

  Behind the scope, the sniper grimaced. We wanted it personal. We wanted it bloody. We got it.

  The assassin made his way down two flights of stairs. He stopped at each landing, looked and listened. The Prince’s bedroom indeed took up a good portion of the ship. The staircase ended twenty feet from the master bedroom door. He slowly made his way down the hall. He stopped again and listened. He could hear the rhythmic breathing of the Prince. He pushed open the door, putting the Beretta in the shoulder holster. The light from the adjacent bathroom illuminated the Prince’s face. The thick carpeting in the room felt good on the assassin’s bare feet as he calmly walked to the side of the bed. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror above the bed. Under normal circumstances, he would have been terrified of the image in the mirror. This was not a normal circumstance.

  The Prince was sleeping flat on his back. Expensive, satin, ivory sheets covered the bed and the Prince. He did not know it but he would be waking up at the gates of hell.

  The assassin sat on the edge of the bed. The Prince was to his left. With his right hand, he removed the remaining knife and held it in his right hand. He whispered to the Prince, who did not stir. He moved the knife to his left hand and held it back like a spear and pushed the Prince with his right hand.

  “Who . . .” the Prince uttered, as he sat straight up in bed. The brutal force of the Garm met his left eye. It pierced his eye and entered his brain. He fell back onto the bed. He was dead before his head hit the pillow.

  The assassin left the knife protruding from the Prince’s face. He made his way to the stern of the yacht and was met halfway by two members of the crew. He pulled the Beretta and cut them down before they could utter a word. He stepped over the bodies and continued towards the stern, dropping the gun at their feet. He moved onto the deck and made his way to the rope.

  Bridgette heard the thunderous shots.

  Five hundred meters away, the sniper, quietly watching, reported “Target eliminated. Ahmed was not on the yacht. Orders?” The sniper did not look up from the scope.

  “Observe only,” a voice on the other end answered. The connection then went dead. The sniper sighed and immediately started breaking down the rifle. The boat started and headed towards Cannes.

  The assassin quickly descended to the waiting zodiac. He gave the rope a tug and the grappling hook detached from the ship and fell into the water. He started the motor and moved away from the ship.

  Bridgette watched him.

  It was 3:15 A.M. The assassin rode the waves five hundred meters from the ship and stopped. The zodiac silently bobbed up and down on the water. He pulled off the shoulder holster, placed it at his feet, removed the knife sheaves and placed them on the floor of the boat. Reaching into the bag he took a towel out and began to clean off the black body paint. Satisfied, he picked up the second Beretta from the bag, aimed the weapon at the sides of the zodiac and emptied the magazine into the boat. It immediately took on water. He stood in the middle of the boat until it began to sink. The boat disappeared beneath the water as he began swimming towards the lights of Cannes. He had an eight hundred meter swim in front of him.

  The Crescent was making its way back to the Scimitar. Ahmed was exhausted. He knew the Prince would be up early and would demand he be ready as well.

  Faisal had tried several times to reach his men. They were not answering. When the Crescent approached no one emerged to assist them. Something was wrong and Faisal knew the Prince was dead.

  The crew of the smaller vessel was able to come along side the large yacht. Faisal and Ali drew their weapons and boarded the Scimitar. They sprinted towards the Prince’s bedroom, nearly tripping over the bodies of the crew. They pushed open the Prince’s door and flipped on the light. Ali stopped when he saw the knife. Faisal walked slowly over and looked down at the Prince. Blood had run down his face and was pooling on the sheets and pillow. He recognized the knife. A nasty thing. He turned and looked at Ali. Ahmed walked in behind him. He did not touch the body.

  “What? Who
could have done this?” he asked. Faisal pointed at the knife. Ahmed looked closely at it.

  “So?” Ahmed asked incredulously.

  “It’s a knife favored by the Mossad,” Faisal replied. Ahmed became furious.

  “Search the ship!” Ahmed was not so much saddened by the Prince’s murder, as he was concerned that the assassin could still be on board waiting for him.

  “Ali, find the others. Search the ship,” Faisal said, without emotion. Ali turned and walked out of the bedroom. Faisal followed. Ali flipped on the lights to the hallway leading to the bedroom. Faisal looked for any indication that his men might have at least wounded the assassin. He saw nothing. The assassin had gotten away clean. It did not appear that his men had offered any resistance. Faisal continued down the hallway. The bodies of the crew lay at the end of the hall near bottom of the stairs. It was then he saw a weapon at their feet. Like the knife, it was a favorite of the Mossad, or so he thought. He picked it up and examined it. He pocketed the weapon, walked outside and he heard the panicked calls from Ali. He raced up the stairs to the upper deck. When he got to the top, he saw Ali, doubled over. Sick. One of his men was on the deck facing down with his head barely attached to his body. The bodyguard’s blood had sprayed all over the deck. From the amount of blood on the deck it appeared that the assassin had drained every drop of blood from their bodies. He could see that his men had not died well. He walked around and was shocked at the brutality. No one spoke. The second bodyguard had an axe imbedded in his skull up to the handle. The same type of knife that killed the Prince was sticking out of his chest. The bodyguard was still sitting in the chair. Faisal leaned over and looked at the blood that was smeared on the man’s suit. It was obvious that the assassin tortured him briefly and wiped his knife off on his clothing before driving the axe into his skull. He had no doubt that the same knife had killed the Prince.

  Screams suddenly broke the silence. Faisal ran to the stairs and looked down. Ali followed. Ahmed had Bridgette by the hair.

  “This whore brought this upon us!” Ahmed screamed. Bridgette had her hands on Ahmed’s trying to release his grip on her hair.

  “It is not possible. Let her go,” Faisal said calmly. Ahmed looked at him. Faisal and Ali walked down the stairs.

  “You do not give the orders!”

  “Let her go,” he said again. Ahmed relented. The girl fell to the ground. Faisal helped her up and into a chair on the deck.

  In French he asked, “What did you see?” She paused and looked up at him.

  “A man. A man in a little boat. He killed everyone,” she said, looking around nervously.

  “One man?” Ahmed said glaring at Faisal.

  “What did he look like? Tall? Short? Did you hear him speak?” Faisal asked her. Ali paced behind Bridgette.

  “He was tall like you. He had on paint. I saw him through the window. That was all,” she said. She was nervously picking at her hands. Her hair was in her face and her eye make-up was running down her face. She was babbling.

  Faisal took a breath and removed the weapon he had found in the hallway from his pocket.

  In Arabic, Ahmad demanded, “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Beretta Px4 Storm. The favorite weapon of the Mossad, but they also use many weapons. I wouldn’t jump to a conclusion too quickly,” Faisal answered.

  Ahmed was clenching his fists. He didn’t want his emotions to show, but he was seething. “They will pay for this,” he said to himself

  “What do we do with her?” Ali asked. Ahmed looked at her. Bridgette had no idea what they were saying. She thought they spoke an ugly language.

  ‘Kill her,” Ahmed ordered in Arabic. Without hesitation, Ali grabbed her from behind and choked the life out of her. Faisal turned around. He could not watch. Another innocent. Ali tossed her body over the side.

  “I must inform the Prince’s son. We need to clean this up,” Ahmed said. “I will get to the bottom of this. There will be retribution.”

  “I don’t think this was the Israelis,” Faisal said.

  Ahmed was normally a planner. A thinker. He had let his considerable intellect be swallowed by anger. He could no longer control it.

  “I don’t care what you think! It is obvious who did this!” Ahmed screamed.

  ★★★

  From the patio of the Majestic Barriere, the sniper watched a man emerge from the cool salt water and calmly walk up the beach to his room.

  The assassin entered and closed the door and stood in the dark room. The air conditioning gave him a chill. Water ran off of his body and onto the floor. His phone rang. He picked it up.

  “Ty Cobb is the Georgia Peach,” the voice said.

  “Go on,” he said, listened for fifteen seconds, hung up and lay down in the bed.

  He went to sleep.

  BOOK I

  Accept everything about yourself – I mean everything, you are you and that is the beginning and the end – no apologies, no regrets.

  - Henry A. Kissinger

  I

  Sean Garrison

  September 2012

  Pittsburgh - Friday Night

  Sean Garrison stretched his legs and looked out the window at the late afternoon image of downtown Pittsburgh a couple thousand feet below his first class seat. He heard the landing gear of the plane descend.

  “Mr. Garrison, here’s your jacket. Thank you for flying with us. I know you are glad to be home.”

  “No. Thank you, Jennifer. Remember, if you have a couple free nights in Pittsburgh you really need to check out Shadyside,” Sean smiled at the flight attendant. Jennifer was easily 5’10”. Most of it legs. The dark blue USAir uniform looked great on her. Her long black hair was in a pony tail that rested just so on her shoulder. Her brown eyes had energy behind them. Her olive skin looked so soft. So inviting. . . . “I think she likes me,” Sean thought to himself.

  There was definitely a difference between the back and the front of a plane and Sean was thankful every time he stepped on a flight. Food, drinks, movies and a big, lay-flat seat. His new job was treating him well. They flew him all over the world first class, put him up in great hotels, all to do marketing research. It sure as hell beat working for a sweatshop-advertising agency run by narcissistic tyrants.

  Twenty-eight years old and already on top of the world.

  The pilot slammed the plane down on to the runway. It jolted Sean. “At least we are on the ground,” he thought to himself.

  “That’s a military pilot up there,” the old guy to his left said. It was the first time the man had spoken in eight hours. He was wearing a grey suit and a crisp white shirt. He exuded confidence. However, his most notable feature was a full head of thick, shocking white hair. A pair of round glasses rested atop the biography of Teddy Roosevelt on his lap.

  “How can you tell?” Sean asked.

  “They all think they are still landing on aircraft carriers,” he said, folding the glasses and placing them in an ancient case.

  “Hmmm. That’s interesting,” Sean said. How do you really respond to that? You want to be polite, but not so polite that the guy keeps talking which could make the short trip to the terminal seem like a second trans-Atlantic flight.

  “I heard you describing Pittsburgh to the flight attendant. What’s her name? Jennifer? Anyway, I think you are spot on. It’s one of my favorite cities,” he said looking at Sean.

  “You live in Pittsburgh?” Sean asked while powering on his iPhone.

  “No. I live in D.C. I am just visiting a couple colleagues tonight and driving home in the morning.”

  “D.C. is a fun city. What do you do there?”

  “I’m a student of history. I read. I analyze. I advise,” he said lightly.

  “I like that,” Sean replied, thinking that a gig like that is not half bad. He nodded towards the biography on the man’s lap. “Edmond Morris right? Teddy is my favorite president.”

  “Really? Why is that?”

  “I suppose it wa
s his quest for knowledge, his desire to experience life,” Sean replied. The man nodded in agreement.

  “Plus, he’s a guy I’d like to have a drink with,” Sean said with an easy smile.

  “I second that,” the old guy said. The man looked carefully at Sean and noticed a small scar on his neck.

  “How did you get that?”

  Sean laughed slightly. “A pretty wicked bar fight. One of the Pittsburgh Penguins slashed me with a broken bottle. You should see him. Not pretty.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “No. . . .Actually, I was volunteering at a youth lacrosse camp four years ago and a ten year old accidently slashed me,” Sean explained, starting to laugh at his own story and unconsciously scratching the scar.