Sweet Dreams (2 page)

He grumbled in frustration--the little buggers were ruining his quiet time and in his busy life, he treasured this time of the day. It was his time to think and to clear his head, not to mention enjoy a good cigar.

He felt another one bite into the side of his neck and his anger made his face flush red.
That one stung like a bee sting
not a mosquito bite
, he thought. A cold shiver ran its way up his spine.

Rubbing his neck with his thick fingers, he didn't feel anything unusual. The weird thing was, he didn't feel anything, anything at all. His fingers felt numb, like hard rubber. It was as if someone else was touching his neck. He still had feeling everywhere else but his hands were numb. He neck was beginning to pulse with pain and he turned and managed to make it back into his study without falling down. He could feel his temperature rise and small beads of sweat made there way to the surface of his forehead. Nothing could prepare him for what happened next.

Screaming out in agony, he fell to the floor. Clutching his head with his hands, he dug his nails into his skull, as if digging his nails into his skin would make the pain stop.

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Hokamend screamed out for a guard or someone...anyone to come help him, but no one came to his aid. "What's going on?" He mumbled to himself as he writhed on the floor. His confusion gave way to his instinct to live, and he tried calling out again, to the point where he could feel his throat start to burn. The pain started to get worse and his ears rang with a deafening sound that reminded him of the air horns he used to hear as a boy just before a bomb exploded and more people he knew died. It was always the same thing, mangled bodies, missing limbs and the smell; he would never forget the smell. Like burnt flesh and rust.

The realization hit him that his screams were not doing any good. He was screaming out in agony, but no sound was coming out of his mouth. He did manage a slight gurgling sound--then just air.

He didn't know it, but his voice box had already melted away into nothing. His insides were being heated up by his own immune system as they fought the chemical that blazed through his body. All he felt now was pain. Every nerve in his body burned with a heat that he never thought could generate from a human body. All he could do was curl up in a ball on the floor, and hold his ears. "That sound...Why won't it stop?" He screamed.

He managed to get his hand free and began dragging it down to eye level. He blinked once trying to clear his vision and he couldn't believe what he was seeing. It was his ear!

Sitting in his hand was his ear, sizzling like a piece of bacon that was just pulled off a hot frying pan. He tried to focus; he needed to get his brain to start working. But his mind went into panic mode instead, he couldn't even think anymore. All he saw was orange and red. The pain was so severe that it was almost beyond maddening. He mouthed a curse as he held his bloody ear in his hand.

Then it happened. His body began to heat up passing one hundred and fifty degrees, and reaching two hundred in seconds. Pain swept over his body like a wave of fresh molten lava spitting from a huge volcano. His pores opened up all over his body, trying desperately to relieve the pressure and the heat. The pain was so sharp and excruciating that all he could do was writhe on the floor, clawing at his head and face. His face was as red as a fire hydrant, and his shoes were melting in the heat. Then, nothing...

Hokamend was dead. In less than five minutes from the time of the mysterious bug bite, he had gone from a middleaged healthy male to not even recognizable. His body still lay in the fetal position on the floor of his office with his boots, socks and feet gone with only a smoking bloody stub where they used to be. His head and face looked like they had been put into a microwave and cooked on high. Nothing else seemed out of place in the room. If it wasn't for his head and lack of feet, it might have been thought that he had a heart attack and fell over clutching his chest and left arm like you would see in the movies. The bodyguards joked just outside his door as to whom he would curse at tonight for not getting him his drink on time. Little did they know that, just a few feet away, an assassination had just taken place. ________________________________________

MARK APPLETON QUIETLY MADE his way down from

his rooftop perch where he had just carried out another flaw-

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less hit. It seemed that no one was aware of his presence, which was the way he liked it. From the looks of it, he did not think that the guards would discover the body until the next morning.

Mark's blond hair hid under a dark baseball cap, which matched the rest of his attire. Black cargo pants and a longsleeve shirt with patched on the elbows and a tiny pocket on the left arm for a throwing knife. He wore skintight lambskin gloves that were like a second skin. He was silent as he moved across the rooftop and to a zip line, which was how he had come up to this particular building.

The line was made of a small woven cable that was used in airplane wings and developed by NASA. It would hold up to three thousand pounds with the eighth-inch line he was using. The line was attached to the side of the old apartment building, where Mark had shot with an high-powered air gun that looked like a small crossbow and shot anchor, which spread out once it penetrated the brick to form a solid hold, spanning across to the adjacent building about five hundred yards away.

Hooking up to the line, Mark slung his weapon over his shoulder and started his descent. Without making a sound, he slid through the air with ease and made it to the next building. A door on the rooftop led to a back stairway, which Mark quietly made his way down. These old buildings had long since been abandoned, except for a homeless drunk here and there, they had old boxes and junk piled up in corners and the smell of urine and mold made even the musty air outside seem like a fresh ocean breeze. Mark made sure not to wake any of them as he went down the twelve flights of stairs.

Once he was on the main level, he made a right through a broken wooden door and into an empty room. Half of the wallpaper was torn off the walls, and the carpet was long gone leaving just plywood which was curling up on the ends. The buildings were bombed out with a few rooms still intact in each one but this part of town looked like a tornado had ran through the streets. Some buildings were beautiful and untouched; others were about to cave in on themselves. War had a way of leaving its mark on more then just the people. Mark quickly took apart his weapon and as he did so, his eyes searched the room for anything he might have left or any sign that could tie him to this dilapidated building. He folded the gun in half where the barrel and stock met. All the metal had a black matte finish and the stock was a composite plastic. The scope came off with a click sound and he shoved everything in a backpack and pulled it onto his shoulder. Once everything was secure, he pulled out a small remote, from his pocket. As he stepped outside, he peered around the corner, making sure no one had spotted him, and pushed the button the little red button.

He listened and he could hear a faint sizzling sound as the zip line above him melted and then turned to ash and floated away in small flakes.

"Good," He muttered under his breath, "no trace." A look of satisfaction crossed his face as he ran across the street. Tehran, like most cities in the desert, would come alive after nightfall. People were smoking outside of the local bar and likely talking shop or griping about the heat. Mark could hear laughing coming from inside of one bar as he passed, someone

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fell off a chair making a loud thumping sound and glass shattered when his mug hit the floor. The streets were concrete and asphalt with a few intersections lined with cobblestone. He was in the lower class part of the city right on the edge of where they had spent millions upgrading the city. Red, blue, and yellow cloth hung out above shops with lights and signs blinking hoping to draw traffic to look at what they had to sell. Mark made his way down a back alley, kept his head down and tried not to look at anyone. Tonight all Mark wanted was to get back to his nice soft bed and get some sleep.

He came upon a small one-story shop made of brick and sported some cool graffiti right next to the front door. There was a sign in Persian above the door that read "Sporting Goods." The building wasn't much to look at with thick black steel bars over the front door which was wooden and starting to turn gray from the sun. The windows were boarded up and they too had the local kids handiwork spray-painted on the boards that covered the broken windows.

The heavy door creaked as Marked pushed it open and went inside. The lock clicked when he turned the lock and deadbolt into place. Pulling off his ball cap, he tossed it on the coat rack.

The shop was one open room with two rows of metal shelves in the middle, stocked with fishing gear, graphite fishing rods, hooks, fishing line and every kind of bait you can imagine. The other shelf had a complete line of camping supplies: Coleman stoves, dehydrated meals like stew with potatoes and green beans to deserts like peach cobbler. If you were the old school type, you could just get the original MRE's and hope your taste buds were on vacation. The racks against the walls went all the way around the room and came to a stop at the front desk where there was a cash register and a glass case with pistols and knives. Behind the counter were guns of every shape and size, from shotguns to M16's. All of them were used, but in good working order.

The shop was not much, but it was clean and it provided a good place for him to hide as he was researching his target. The owner was a native who worked for the same organization that Mark did. As far as any one else was concerned, he was an out-of-town guest.

Mark went to the very back of the little shop, and stopped in front of a shelf that was filled with books on how to fish and hunt, primarily on how to stay alive in the desert. Running his fingers along the back of the books, he felt around for... "Got it." Feeling a small lump the size of a fingertip, he placed his index finger on the button and pushed. A deep groaning sound sliced the silence and the floor to the right of where Mark stood started to open. Splitting in the middle, the floor opened up to a concrete staircase going down about fifteen steps. The hole was six by six and the concrete lid rotated down and hung like wing doors on a cargo plane.

Mark started down and the floor closed behind him with a final thud. Wall lights illuminated the staircase and a few flickered as they came to life. At the bottom of the stairs, Mark came to another door. This door was made of metal and looked like it weighed over a thousand pounds with huge rivets and bolts going all the way around the border of it. A small red light glowed like an evil eye and made a bubble of glass as it protruded from the wall.

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Mark looked at the small LCD screen that was mounted to the right of the door. He placed his hand on it and the thing lit up and ran a scan of his handprint. Then he leaned down and spoke into the box making sure to pronounce each syllable perfectly.

"Appleton, Mark."

The red light above the door started humming as a red laser of light shot straight out and fanned out at the end so it lit up red from wall to wall. It started at the top of his head and began to scan down his body. It took readings of his frame and measurements of each bone like an x-ray but way more advanced. The light turned green when it had finished with the scan and then the door unlocked and slid down into the floor. What lay beyond was not a concrete bunker or a dingy underground hideout. It was a house. Well not a real house but as much, a house as you could get this far away from home. The room looked like any everyday home that dotted the landscape of every American city. To the right was a kitchen with a black whirlpool stove and microwave oven. To the left of that was a sitting area with a fireplace and a fifty-inch plasma screen TV with surround-sound and a Blue-Ray player. A couch with big fluffy cushions sat facing the TV, and a rug made of camel hair was tossed on the floor.

Mark punched a code on a key pad that was mounted to the wall across the living room and a hidden door opened. It made a whoosh sound and reminded Mark of something he once saw in a Star Trek movie. The small room was filled with cases and weapons. A cold metal table was against the wall and Mark began to unpack his backpack. After he had cleaned and oiled his gun, he put it back in its place next to a Glock that hung behind glass in an eight-foot case. Every wall had similar cases and they each contained guns, C4, landmines, and rocket launchers. Most of the weapons and ammo had Mark's own personal touches, from bullets made of paper to guns that shot with air and sound waves.

Mark looked around the room one last time and then left the room. The door whooshed back into place and blended into the wall as if it never existed. Mark stretched and pulled off his shirt and ran his fingers through his blond hair. He was craving a cool shower and a shave. The stakeout and events leading up to the kill had taken about a year of stalking and long boring nights waiting for a clear shot.

The hot water felt good as it cascaded over his body. He was lean and muscular with not a drop of fat on him. He worked out as much as he could but for the most part, he just had good genetics. The cool water washed away the stress of the day like only a shower could. Mark thought about the terrorist he had just killed. He was supposed to be sad or even to feel a little guilty about killing another man, but he could not bring himself to even feel bad. All the things he had done, the bombings, most of them by schools or near playgrounds so as to kill as many kids as possible. He had even trained snipers who would kill twenty people in a major city like New York or Chicago before anyone even realized anything was going on.

"It was time for the terrorists of the world to live in
fear
instead of us fearing them."