Last Strike

L
ast Strike

Unknown Identities #4

By Regan Black

Published by Getaway Reads, LLC

Copyright 2015 by Regan Black

Cover art by Duckling Media, ducklingmedia.com

T
his book is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission from the author.

L
ast Strike stood
sentry on the sidewalk near the black sedan, heedless of the wind tugging at his long coat. Hands relaxed at his sides, eyes sheltered by dark sunglasses, he resembled the rest of the protection detail stationed around town.

That faulty assumption would be the last mistake of any attacker who managed to get this close to the man inside the car. Being underestimated was one of the things he enjoyed about his job. It gave him one more advantage in a deck already stacked in his favor.

“Boston in February. Yes. That is the logical explanation.”

Last Strike heard his boss’s voice through the cracked window. He didn’t bother to speculate or put the words into context. Not his job. His boss, code name Messenger, had global interests, while he had only one: do Messenger’s bidding. At the moment, that was keeping an eye out for danger in this sleepy little town.

Behind his sunglasses, he scanned the street for anyone showing too much interest in them.

About now, he wished they were in Prague or Hong Kong. This small-town slice of the Midwest oozing Americana put an itch between his shoulder blades. Give him the raw honesty of urban decay any day over this grating façade of peace and contentment. To a man, the people here would weep if they knew who stood on this pristine, family-value street. He experienced a rare struggle with temptation as he imagined a violent scene, allowing none of that to show as he stood, unflinching, a consistently faultless example for the other bodyguards.

“All of the evidence indicated they were dead,” Messenger said. Last Strike felt the chill of his boss’s gaze, but he would not cease his surveillance duty until ordered to do so.

His world was simple and his concerns few. He followed the orders issued by the man inside this car. Always in an expensive gray suit, his boss managed Unknown Identities (UI), a covert network of uniquely skilled operatives. To be recruited was an honor extended to those men and women who were out of conventional options, usually due to poor personal choices or some horrendous failure. The UI program had several research and training facilities hidden under layers of grants, dummy corporations, and other impenetrable smokescreens.

Last Strike’s detailed knowledge was a result of being around from what amounted to day one. As a control subject for various experiments while UI honed their techniques, he’d suffered early on, but Messenger had eventually rescued him. Only Messenger embraced the skills and personality markers the scientists and developers feared when they tagged him for termination, claiming he was too volatile to continue.

Messenger had given him a code name and weapons and put him to good use as an elite assassin for the benefit and protection of the program. Now, a trusted asset, he had extensive access because he never spoke unless spoken to. Even within secure facilities, most people were too afraid to even say hello, fearful he’d report the exchange to his boss. It was a good life. Secure and direct, he knew where he stood at all times.

His expression stony and his thoughts light, Last Strike continued to scan the street, not quite relieved by the lack of threats. He enjoyed the hunt and the strategy involved to efficiently dispatch a target. It had been several weeks since Messenger had tasked him with an assignment beyond personal security.

“We followed protocol with every washout.” Though Messenger’s cultured voice betrayed no emotion, Last Strike knew this conversation was about more than successes or failures.

Washout protocol referred to subjects who survived testing and yet managed to fail UI in other areas. Typically, they were institutionalized in private hospitals, where powerful drugs kept their resulting psychoses under control and explained away any bizarre tales of life inside the UI labs. He’d been close to that fate himself, once.

While Messenger continued his conversation, Last Strike noticed a photographer across the street. He signaled the closest man on the perimeter and kept a sharp eye on the situation as it was resolved.

The window rolled down. “Join me,” Messenger ordered.

Waiting until the bodyguard at the front of the car took his place, Last Strike rounded the trunk and opened the back door, sliding into the seat next to his boss. In the dim interior of the car, he removed his sunglasses.

“Last Strike, you told me Amelia Bennett died.”

“Yes, sir.” He nodded. “By car explosion.”

“I saw the pictures.” Messenger held his gaze. “And the autopsy report.”

He waited in silence for a question to answer. Amelia Bennett was a reporter who’d come too close to exposing an important UI connection. If he’d failed on a mission of that magnitude, Messenger would’ve already had him killed.

“Both were convincing,” Messenger continued. “The team who misplaced Bulletproof’s body was reassigned.”

Reassigned to the bottom of the nearest ocean, most likely. He was glad he hadn’t been given those targets. They would’ve presented no challenge.

“It’s come to my attention that Bulletproof and Bennett are alive. Possibly working together.”

Impossible
. Then again, Bulletproof had been the cream of the crop among the early UI agents. If anyone knew how to stage his own death and evade the program, it would be him.

“A response is required, Last Strike,” Messenger said quietly.

“Sir.” He weighed his words and the consequences carefully, wondering if the life he loved, if his tenure with the man he respected and admired had reached an end. “Any chance of her survival is too small to consider valid. The car exploded. I watched it sink in the river.” His voice felt rusty as he squeezed out the string of words.

Messenger tapped his manicured fingertip on his knee. “Yesterday I might have agreed with you.”

Might
? Any doubt from his boss, meant the end of his life was near. He had no fear of death. It was his stock in trade. If today was his last, he’d be honored to have Messenger deal the fatal blow.

“A woman narrowly escaped a serial killer in Boston on Valentine’s Day,” Messenger told him. “The press claims her brother came to her aid even as a Boston PD sting operation closed in.”

Last Strike nodded, recalling the report from last month. Only a handful of people knew the killer was a UI washout and two of them were in this car. The washout had been slipping in and out of confinement to indulge his compulsion to commit grisly murders.

“These siblings, touted as citizen-heroes, ducked the spotlight. It took some work to convince the sting operation to share the surveillance footage. Even so, the facial recognition wasn’t conclusive. However, the prevailing theory among my superiors is those ‘siblings’ were Bulletproof and Bennett.”

His boss hadn’t asked a question, but Last Strike understood another response was required. “You believe I failed,” he said.

Messenger plucked a non-existent piece of lint from his slacks. “It would be the first time.”

Once more, he waited out a long pause. He’d watched other agents sign their death warrants by anticipating Messenger. If death was his due, he’d take it. That didn’t mean he had to rush headlong into the process.

“It would mean we were both fooled,” Messenger admitted quietly. “Which makes it all the more difficult to accept.”

He wanted to volunteer to investigate and correct his error, though he knew from experience Messenger already had a plan of action in mind. Last Strike wasn’t an investigator or agent, he was UI classified as a Cleaner, the operative who headed off trouble and nipped any loose ends. That he had apparently left an end loose troubled him more than he cared to admit.

“Things did not go as planned in New York over the holidays,” Messenger said.

No. His last two assignments had met with unexpected interference. While UI had ultimately secured the man they were after, neither Last Strike nor Messenger considered those ops a success. Like his boss, he preferred things complete and final with no reason for lingering doubts.

Those who knew his true role at Messenger’s side referred to him by one of two names. Either the Cleaner, per his classification, or End Game because when he arrived the mission was over, no more last-second chances for a win. Only Messenger called him by his given code name.

Messenger sighed, a rare sign of frustration. “Is it possible the problems in New York were caused by Bulletproof?”

Again he gave it some thought before offering a reply. “If he is alive,” he allowed for the possibility, “he could not have interfered without intel from inside UI.”

“I agree.”

Last Strike hadn’t felt panic in so long, he barely recognized the sensation. “I -”

Messenger cut short his protest with a raised finger. “I am well aware
you
are not the problem.”

“Thank you, sir.” It appeared he would live through the meeting, possibly the rest of the day. The relief was as foreign a sensation as the panic had been. He didn’t want any doubt cast on his unflagging allegiance to Messenger. He didn’t want to die with a black mark of disloyalty following him to the grave.

“We will part ways here,” Messenger said, pulling his cell phone from the inner pocket of his suit coat. “I’m emailing a plane ticket and the details of your new target.”

“Yes, sir.” While he wasn’t comfortable leaving Messenger’s safety to others, he never questioned orders. The sooner the target was terminated, the sooner he would be back protecting the one man who had set him free, the only person in the world who valued his skills.

“Plug the leak with your usual efficiency,” Messenger said. “
After
you identify where the intel is going.”

“Yes, sir.” He exited the car and walked down the block, around the corner and into a small, family-owned hardware store. Between aisles of paint, he reviewed the email and checked his flight information. While the destination in Maryland didn’t hold any appeal for him - even the state flag was hideous - the target certainly did. Messenger must not be entirely irritated with him, to reward him so well.

He deleted the photo. He didn’t need any reminder of that particular face, it had been burned into his memory long ago. Back then he’d thought she was an angel hiding her wings. He’d ached to touch the silk of her golden hair and he’d found her wide, brown eyes warm behind the cold lab glasses.

He’d never been a bigger fool. He’d soon learned the devil wore the best disguises. Despite her heavenly appearance, the bitch had proven herself a master at torture. His heart kicked in his chest. He couldn’t wait to return the favor in the process of carrying out Messenger’s orders.

He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly and the surge of excitement with it. Messenger used him for these tasks because his precision and detachment made him a superb killer. He wasn’t ashamed that he enjoyed his work. But not even Messenger could understand just how much gratification he’d gain by ending this particular life.

His fingers twitched against the phone in his pocket as he left the hardware store. Watching her, waiting for her to hand off UI’s secrets would only serve as anticipation and increase his eventual pleasure.

D
r. Daria Johannson
was being followed. Or she was being paranoid.

If a bookie asked her to choose, she’d put her money on followed. It was the safe bet and a frequent fact of her top secret research division. So really, it was no bet at all. She knew from the beginning that low-grade paranoia was a common side-effect of having guards lurking about while the team worked tirelessly to create their specific, covert advances. The better question was why she was thinking about bookies and betting when she needed to be thinking about self-defense and escape routes?

She tugged up the collar of her coat, small relief against the brisk spring wind funneling through the parking garage. March seemed determined to go out with a lion-esque roar. Hurrying toward her car, she held her keys teeth-out between her knuckles. The tactic might be enough to buy a few seconds in an attack. Every shadow, cast by cement pillars and tucked between cars, loomed large and threatening. “Too many movies.”

The rational side of her brain wasn’t buying it. Or was it the irrational side?

She wasn’t sure it mattered.

She’d survived internships, demanding years of medical school, research lab politics, and just when she thought she had it made, she discovered she’d landed on the jagged edge of an ethical dilemma. It started to cut into her immediately, with her first patient, and the wound never healed.

She’d known she had to find a way to break free or die trying for nearly a year. She couldn’t reconcile the methods with the results any more. Rationalizing her efforts had been effective in the early days, but no longer. After that phase passed she buried her head into the project, avoiding the cold reality of her fate within the program. With no clean way out, obsessing over a future she’d never see served no valid purpose.

She’d done her job well. Quite possibly too well, though no one in the scientific community would sing her praises unless she offered up the proof. Proof she was ashamed of even if sharing the program success wouldn’t land her in jail or an unmarked grave.

As her heels clicked along, echoing off the cement surroundings, her mind counted her steps as accurately as a pedometer. She pressed the key fob to unlock her car. The lights didn’t flash. She frowned and tried again. The battery couldn’t be dead, she’d only had the car a few months.

Rushing forward, her heart pounding in her chest, her knuckles went white as she pressed the key fob repeatedly right at the door. No response. She heard a sound from another row of parked cars. Footsteps? Staring at the uncooperative door, she told herself she had options. She’d tucked away some cash and stashed a bag in a locker at the bus station. She could -

“Dr. Johannson?”

Spinning toward the friendly voice, she tried to smile, hoping she didn’t look insane as the relief washed over her. “Dr. Gerardi. Hello.”

Her boss had at least three decades on her and he was one of the few people who had always been generally friendly despite her positive or negative lab results. She admired his ability to focus solely on the progression of science.

“Long day in the lab?”

Her smile began to ease into a curve that felt more natural. “Not much longer than normal. You know how it is. I was just having trouble with my car lock.”

He patted her shoulder. “But this isn’t your car.”

“Pardon?” She twisted around, taking a good look at the car’s interior. It was true her compact high-efficiency sedan was a popular model and she’d purposely ordered it in the most popular color. But that wasn’t her red coffee mug in the console and the wadded up remains of a fast food lunch certainly wasn’t hers. “I guess I am distracted.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks and raced up to the tips of her ears as she looked up and down the row for her car.

“Don’t you typically park on level four?” he asked.

She glanced back to the nearest sign. She was on level two. How had she managed to push the wrong button on the elevator? “Maybe the day took more of a toll that I thought,” she said. There was no way to save face. Researchers were typically accused of having no real-world common sense and she’d just reinforced the stereotype. In front of her boss. “Please, excuse me.”

Dr. Gerardi chuckled kindly. “Happens to all of us occasionally.” He leaned close, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Usually just before a breakthrough.”

“I hope you’re right.” Her most recent
eureka
moment hadn’t been a happy one. She inched around him, aiming for the stairwell. “Have a lovely evening.”

“Dr. Johannson, this really is a fortunate coincidence. I’ve wanted to ask your advice on something, if you have some time?”

Her evening plans involved booking an impromptu vacation, preferably tropical, in a country that didn’t have an extradition agreement with the United States. It was time to hand over what she knew and hope she survived the fallout. “Of course.” She couldn’t imagine what advice she could possibly offer a man with his experience and credentials, but time spent with Dr. Gerardi was always educational. “Where shall we meet?”

“My car is right here. Let’s ride over to Della Ricci’s together.”

She would have offered to walk the few blocks, if not for his recent knee replacement. “Oh, I can drive. It will save you coming back this way.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m parked right here.”

She appreciated his kindness, welcomed it after the extreme stress of recent weeks. In the privacy of his car, where she could be sure no one else was listening, she might even work up the courage to ask his thoughts on her specific problem. She wasn’t certain how to continue developing something she knew would eventually harm others and she couldn’t expect to get away with sabotaging the results much longer.

He held out an arm in the direction of his black Mercedes. “Indulge an old man, won’t you?”

There wasn’t much point in tossing out more objections. Not when the idea of being alone terrified her. “Of course.”

She dropped her keys into her coat pocket and fell into step beside him. Being unpredictable was a smart idea under the circumstances. Someone was definitely tailing her and she shouldn’t make it easy.

Dr. Gerardi opened the passenger door for her, waiting patiently while she slid into the supple leather seat, politely making sure her coat didn’t get caught in the door. He walked around the front of the car, hesitating and peering closely at something on the edge of the hood. Through the windshield, his gaze met hers and the abrupt sadness in his eyes startled her. “Such a waste,” he said, shaking his head.

The electronic locks clicked and a low hiss sounded behind her as a fog of white smoke rose from the floorboards of the back seat. She felt the damp vapor on her feet first and she covered her mouth against the cloying scent. Her analytical brain registered the primary smell of chloroform. Old fashioned, but effective.

Holding her breath, she clawed at the door handle, to no avail. The locks wouldn’t give. She tried the window controls and got no response. How had he rigged this device? Why? Her lungs burned, and biologic reflex brought the poisoned air into her lungs. “Why?” she shouted at him through the windshield. He only shook his head.

She reached for the steering wheel and pounded her fist on the car horn. Dr. Gerardi took a startled few steps backward while she struck at the window with her elbow and then her computer tote. It didn’t break. The gas seeped through her lungs, into her blood. She was as good as dead. With no one to trust she’d waited too long. Her secrets would die with her, kill others too, she thought, as she lost consciousness.

L
ast Strike leaned
against a concrete pillar near Dr. Johannson’s car and waited. Where the hell was she? Thanks to Messenger he had complete, invisible access around and through the security system UI cast like a protective net over the research facility. According to the log, she’d swiped her program badge when she left her lab twenty minutes ago. He’d timed her over the past three days and it never took her more than nine minutes to reach her car. She always worked late - no surprise. His body bore the hard memories and scars of her dedication.

He’d confirmed her habits by reviewing the logs for the past few months. There was no place for her to go but the parking garage as the two food vendors on the first floor had closed hours ago.

She didn’t have friends. A fact that made his job almost too easy. He’d been to her tidy home in an urban renewal neighborhood nearby and searched through everything, even swept her personal computer while she’d showered this morning. His cursory examination of her email, cloud accounts, and online activity didn’t reveal anything solid about her leaking UI secrets. He’d sent the scarce information to Messenger anyway. There were other agents more qualified to pick apart those details. His goal was the woman herself.

If she wasn’t compromising UI’s work through the web, she had to be doing it in person.

He hated sitting out here twiddling his damned thumbs, waiting for her to show up. He despised picking through her life when it would be cleaner just to end it. Anyone who put the UI system in jeopardy was his enemy. He wouldn’t tolerate the threat she posed to his job security, his life’s purpose.

So where the hell was she?

There were four identical cars on this level of the garage, with only the license plates and personal belongings to define them. It was enough to make him wonder about a close-out sale or some employee perk for the UI researchers. Regardless of her lack of imagination in vehicles, he’d use the potential anonymity for a cleaner getaway.

Two short beeps of a car horn broke into his thoughts in a burst of sound that faded on a third, long wail from a lower level. He might have chalked it up to automatic door locks or someone getting an early start on road rage if there’d been engine sounds to go along with it.

Damn. He checked his watch, his instincts amped up to full alert. He bolted for the stairs, determined to rule out his target’s involvement with the anomaly. He paused on the third level and saw nothing, but heard an engine start somewhere. Expensive, quiet idle. Probably that beefy Mercedes one of the older doctors drove. Following the sound he crept closer, waiting to hear the vehicle move toward the exit. The engine sound didn’t change.

Maybe a remote starter. He moved forward cautiously, not wanting to reveal himself to any more people than necessary. Preferably to no one but the bitch he was hunting. He would be sure she knew him, knew he’d come to claim her life…

His thoughts trailed off as he tried to make sense of the inexplicable scene in front of him. The lead doctor at this facility was talking to his car. “I’m sorry. Relax. I’m sorry.”

Last Strike drew his knife from his boot and crept forward for a better look. His target, or someone with golden hair and wearing a moss-green trench coat identical to hers, was in that car, slumped over the console, her hand limp on the steering wheel. She’d apparently hit the horn in a plea for help.

He saw red at the edges of his vision and forced back the hard rush of temper. No one else was allowed to hurt Dr. Johannson. She was
his
target. His
prize
. His revenge and reward all wrapped into one convenient package.

Damn it. He didn’t even know who she’d been talking to yet. This was his assignment, his chance at redemption in Messenger’s eyes and he wasn’t going to let anyone ruin it. The old man wasn’t the target. As a valued asset, he couldn’t just kill him. Messenger would definitely want him alive so they could figure out why he was horning in on Last Strike’s job.

Unfortunate but true.

Not knowing what the man dosed her with, Last Strike used his speed enhancement and moved in swiftly, rendering the doctor unconscious before he even knew to turn around. Taking the man’s keys, he popped the trunk and shoved him in among a clutter of binders, old grocery bags, and a canister of some sort. He slammed the trunk closed, knowing when the man came to he’d be able to summon help or spring the emergency release that was standard on all newer cars.

He regretted his haste when he couldn’t figure out how to open the car. Whatever the old scientist had rigged, it was effective. He had to work quickly before she died or someone else stumbled onto this scene. Thank God Dr. Johannson worked ridiculous hours. Just because the facility was deserted now didn’t mean it would stay that way. He broke the rear passenger window with his elbow and reached in. The handle didn’t budge.

Desperate, he pulled out his gun and shot out the lock. Opening the door, he reached in and pressed his fingers to her neck, checking her pulse. Alive.
Good
. He pulled the doctor’s body from the car. Unconscious, she was limp as a rag doll and he had to brace her against the side of the vehicle as he reached back for her bag. Tossing her over his shoulder, he hurried toward the car he’d rented and left parked a level up, grateful he had the tech support to erase his actions from any security feeds.

He duct-taped her hands and feet, as well as her mouth when she started to mumble. With a pair of handcuffs, he secured one wrist to a bolt under the seat. There would be no escape for her now, no use in crying for help. He wanted her to understand how helpless she was.

As he left the parking garage behind, he struggled to smother his excitement. Not one of his previous kills had this deep, personal meaning. He’d done those to serve Messenger. He vowed not to rush this task, not to strike before he learned
everything
and made her pay for each terrible minute of the pain she’d administered.

Messenger needed to plug a UI leak. Last Strike needed to know why she’d singled him out for her grotesque, traumatizing experiments. The memories pressed at the edges of his control, looking for a weak spot to break free. He was stronger now. Stronger than the memories and the experiments. Disciplined. Capable. Unstoppable.

He took his time on the drive, ignoring the noises in the back seat as she recovered. When he reached her house, he pulled into the garage and lowered the door. His bigger sedan was nearly too large for the space where her sleek little compact usually sat.