Callsign: King II- Underworld

When he could take no more of it, he rose. “Mike, I can’t stay.”


The younger Pierce started to protest, but George headed him off. “I think you really can do it this time if you want it bad enough.” He leaned over and gave Micah a quick perfunctory hug, then hastened out of the room without another word.

As he moved down the short hallway to the stairs, Pierce felt like he was struggling to breathe in a vacuum. The visit with Micah had sucked the energy right out of him, and he desperately needed to get away. He was almost running as he reached the door to the lobby, and tapped his foot anxiously as he waited for the receptionist to release the electronic lock, permitting him to rejoin the man he thought of as his true brother. He caught sight of the tall, athletic-looking figure in faded jeans and a black Elvis T-shirt, standing pensively near the exit.

“That’s done,” Pierce said. “Now let’s head upstate where I can get some of the stink off…”

Pierce’s voice trailed away as he noticed the other man’s urgent expression. “Uh, oh. I know that look. Let me guess: duty calls?”

The other man returned a grim smile and held up his smartphone as if that explained everything—it did. “I’m going to need you on this one.”





2.


Ivan Sokoloff peered through the EO Tech Gen II 3X scope at the front door of the innocuous looking brownstone residence, and waited. When the door opened, as he expected it to in the next few minutes, he would become ten million dollars richer. He let his finger brush the trigger of the bolt-action Remington Model 700 and felt an unexpected stir of anticipation; it felt surprisingly good to be working again.

Sokoloff had thought he was done with this life, and up until only a month ago, he had considered himself happily retired. Like anyone who enjoys their work, there had been some moments of ennui at the prospect of giving up his lucrative career, but it had been a necessary thing. His success in his chosen profession had become a liability; too many people knew of him, knew his deadly reputation, and it was inevitable that he would eventually, having lived by the sword, also die by it. Perhaps it would be a bloody showdown with law enforcement agents or an unexpected betrayal from one of his own associates, hoping to cement a reputation by being the man who killed the world’s deadliest hitman. Or it would just be that his luck would run out—one job too many, his reflexes no longer quite as quick as they once were, his target just a little too well defended.

That was how nearly all professional killers ended their careers, and for a long time, Sokoloff was resigned to that eventuality. But the longer he stayed alive, notching one successful job after another, building a tremendous personal fortune secreted away in various untraceable bank accounts, he had begun to realize that he didn’t really want to go out in a blaze of glory. There was, after all, something to be said for the living the good life and dying at a ripe old age in a lavish cabana in the tropics.

Of course, it wasn’t as simple as giving two weeks notice and walking away. Even retired, he would still have been a very desirable target for any number of enemies. The only way to truly close the door on his past life was to end it, literally. He had to die, or rather make the world believe that he was dead.

Planning his own “murder” hadn’t been terribly difficult. He had found a suitable body double—a homeless man who would never be missed—and strangled him to death, leaving the body in a villa in Greece, along with just enough physical evidence to sell the deception. With the right bribes, he had seen to it that no autopsy was conducted before the body was cremated, and while rumors persisted for sometime thereafter that Sokoloff had faked his death, his complete disappearance from that world had eventually quieted those suspicions. After all, who would believe that the deadliest professional killer in the world had simply chosen to give up his exciting lifestyle to sip fruity tropical drinks and work on his tan?

Yet, that was exactly what he had done, and aside from an occasional wistful moment, he had done it very well for more than a decade. That was perhaps why he had felt nothing but dread when, while lounging by his pool four short weeks earlier, he had received a cryptic text message.

He had glanced at the phone’s display with almost casual indifference, imagining that it was an invitation to dinner at the casino or something equally mundane, but to his consternation, he saw that the sender was “unknown.” The message said simply:



$1,000,000 (US) deposited to your bank account (XXXXXXX833). Confirm and await further communication.



Sokoloff had felt as if someone had just walked across his grave. Someone is probing me. Ignore it. Don’t take the bait.

A few seconds later, the phone had vibrated again.



This amount is a deposit to secure your services. Please confirm promptly.