Callsign: King II- Underworld

Sokoloff probably could have pulled off the hit right there, outside the secure terminal, but the risk of immediate capture was too great. He had brought the target into the open and he had gone to great lengths to set up the ambush at the rehab clinic; as eager as he was to be done with this one last job, he wasn’t about to throw ten million dollars away—to say nothing of his own freedom—with an impetuous act. So instead, he had followed Pierce and King through the city to the brownstone where Micah Pierce, having already played his role—albeit unknowingly, waited for a reunion with his older brother. While that was going on, Sokoloff had gotten in position on a rooftop across the street, deploying the Remington he’d purchased at an upstate sporting goods store earlier in the week. Then he made a call to his local connection.

He had no doubt of his ability to end Sigler’s life with a single pull of the trigger, unaided by any reinforcements. He was likewise certain of his ability to slip away unhindered. But bringing in members of the local Russian organized crime syndicate would add a layer of protection to the job that would completely deflect all suspicion from himself, and perhaps more importantly, from his employer. At his signal, the locals would stage a very public, very visible attack on the clinic, and the ensuing confusion would lead authorities to believe that King was simply a victim of bad timing. They would eventually realize that the fatal bullet had come from a high-powered rifle, and not from the pistols or sub-machine guns wielded by local mob foot soldiers, but that would be a mere detail. The shooters would be arrested and sent to prison, as a matter of course, and the authorities would be satisfied that justice had been served. For their part, the young mafiya soldiers would willingly accept incarceration, because there was no better way to make one’s bones in the world of organized crime, than to serve a prison sentence for killing someone. They would do their time and emerge wearing an intaglio of tattoos as a badge of honor, and no one would ever imagine that the crime had had nothing at all to do with drugs or the Russian mob.

Sokoloff was quite pleased with the plan, mostly because he felt it was the best way to get back to his idyllic retirement with only the barest minimum of exposure. With ten million dollars added to his nest egg, he might even be able to do a better job of avoiding future compulsory offers of employment.

It was only now, as he cradled the rifle and peered through the scope, that he remembered the thrill he had once gotten from taking another man’s life.

Don’t get used to it, Ivan.

The door opened and two men emerged from the clinic building.

Then again, he thought, there’s no reason not to enjoy it a little.

He pulled the trigger.





3.


The call had come only a few minutes after Pierce had gone upstairs to visit his brother.

King—known to a dwindling few by his given name, Jack Sigler—didn’t need to look at the caller ID; all the calls he received on this phone came from the same place. He answered without hesitation.

“It’s Lew, King. Blue’s…ah, otherwise occupied, so it looks like I’m on point for the moment.”

Lewis Aleman was the resident all-purpose tech guy for Chess Team, the ultra-secret, off-the-books covert ops team of which King was the field leader. King wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by the fact that Aleman had stepped up into a more administrative role or by the circumstances that had necessitated it. The last time the man known by the callsign “Deep Blue” had been “otherwise occupied,” the possibility of human extinction—due to the spread of the lethal Brugada contagion—had been in the balance. Deep Blue, otherwise known as Tom Duncan—the former President of the United States—was the brains, eyes and ears of Chess Team. As the Chief Executive, he had created and nurtured Chess Team as a highly mobile, highly capable Delta unit, and when circumstances had forced him to relinquish his position as the leader of the free world, he had made running the team, now completely independent of the Department of Defense, his full time job. It did not bode well that he was out of the office.

King took that news in stride. If Deep Blue’s absence was part of some new unfolding crisis, he would deal with it; that was what he did.

“Sorry to intrude on your vacation,” Aleman continued, “but this one can’t wait.”

King almost laughed. He hardly thought of his extended-weekend fishing getaway with George Pierce as a vacation. But with King’s girlfriend Sara Fogg working to establish a new HIV treatment protocol in Africa, and his adopted daughter Fiona staying with a new friend for the weekend, King had almost no reason to take personal time. If not for George’s unexpected visit on short-notice, he would have been talking to Aleman in person…and he would have a better grasp on why Deep Blue was absent.

“Not a problem, Ale. Spill it.”

“Yesterday afternoon, there was an incident near Phoenix. The official report is that a highway accident led to the release of an unspecified chemical contaminant. They’ve shut down a ten-mile long section of US Highway 60, just west of a little copper mining town called Miami, and established an exclusion zone. Nothing gets in or out.”

“When you say ‘they’ you mean…?”

“The army. And while I grant you it’s a little hinky that the military is running the show, that’s not why I called.”