The Hunted Assassin (16 page)

Jaxon contemplated Howe’s offer. He knew that his options were limited and that it was a slippery slope that he was on—risking the chance that they’d scrub his memory if he didn’t agree.
That’s how they normally got rid of agents,
as Howe himself said earlier.

The thought of being able to lead his own team again was appealing, and he knew the sooner that he completed the mission, the sooner he’d be able to be out there, looking for Celeste. The sooner he’d have his life back.

“Tell me about the mission,” Jaxon said, leaning forward.

26

Howe leaned forward excitedly. “Do you agree to our terms? I need to hear you say it.”

Jaxon sighed deeply. “It doesn’t appear that I have any other recourse. So, it looks like you’ve got your man, director.”

“Extraordinary. I have no doubt you’ve made the right decision,” Howe said.

“Fine. Whatever. Just get on with it,” Jaxon said, standing to pace once again.

Howe stood as well and began to stride alongside Jaxon. “The reason we felt that you were the best choice for this mission was because of your ties to a previous assassination. I’m not sure if you can recall—”

“Trust me, director. I remember every single assassination that you’ve sent me on. Vividly.”

“This one goes quite a ways back. If memory serves, this was your first live training mission, and you were sent to assassinate El Tonto. It was in Ixtapa, Mexico and it was the summer of—”

“Yes. I remember. I inadvertently killed two men on that day, Ignacio Guzman himself and his son.”

Howe nodded. “Yes, I suppose you would recall that mission distinctly. If it’s any consolation, you only killed one person that day. El Tonto. You only maimed his son, but his injuries were severe enough that it looked as if you had taken his life.”

Jaxon stopped in his tracks. “The company knew this the whole time? And nobody had the decency to tell me that I hadn’t killed an innocent boy?” Jaxon asked, sensing his anger build once again.

“Relax, Jaxon. That information was withheld for your own protection. Pablo Guzman was an asset himself. His identity remained a secret, and if you had been read in on the entire file, you’d understand why.”

“Then, what’s changed? Why bring me up to speed now?” Jaxon asked, his impatience building.

“Because, Jaxon. It’s Pablo himself that has changed. Shortly after that mission, he decided to sever all ties with the company and follow in his father’s footsteps. At that point, the company elected to monitor his progress and only react when it was deemed necessary. For many years, the son struggled to equal his father’s production levels, and we watched him stumble and fall many times. There were rivalries with other drug lord families throughout the region, and we hoped that natural selection would take over, and one of the other families would eliminate the target.”

“Obviously, that hasn’t happened,” Jaxon said, filling in Howe’s rhetoric, “otherwise you wouldn’t need me to go after him. Am I close?”

“Precisely. Now, after years of struggling to reorganize the family business, Pablo Guzman has done something that no other drug family has been able to do in quite some time. He’s developed a new drug that is quite different from anything that anyone has seen in our lifetime. The drug gives the user a euphoric feeling that is highly addictive. So addictive, in fact, that just a single dose of Whitetail is all that’s necessary to cause severe dependency. Oh, and there’s absolutely no side effects.”

Jaxon’s eyes widened as he listened to Howe. “How is that possible? No side effects at all? And with nearly instantaneous addictive qualities?”

“That’s right. To make matters worse, the Guzman family has made those facts known and that it is basically a safe haven drug,” Howe said. “Initially, they started selling it at a cost substantially less than any other drug on the market today. Then, around six months ago, a sharp price hike took the market by surprise. They’ve continued to increase the cost ever since, pricing it nearly twenty times more than heroin or cocaine. It’s virtually priced out of nearly everyone’s budgetary constraints.”

“Why would Guzman do that?” Jaxon asked.

“Because he can. He knows the addictive nature of the drug will force people to pay, regardless of the consequences. Now, violence and terror have broken out in virtually every drug community in the world. The demand has skyrocketed, and Guzman has now reduced his production levels, continuing to drive the cost up. Actually, the man has devised a brilliant marketing technique, and if it weren’t for the narcotic nature of his business, he’d probably win some kind of an award for his process.”

“And your so-called chemists haven’t been able to reverse engineer the drug? Find out what makes it so addictive?” Jaxon asked.

“There’ve been many attempts by some of the highest-trained chemists in the world, but each has been an epic failure. We feel the only solution to the problem is to eliminate the drug at the source.”

“Kind of like cutting the head off the snake?”

Howe grimaced. “As I said before, we only want the production source to be eliminated. If there’s a chance that you can remove the leader from the equation at the same time, that would be a bonus. But, let’s be clear, that is not your main directive,” he explained.

Jaxon stopped in front of a picture window that overlooked a pristine meadow surrounded by pine trees. The location they had chosen certainly was isolated. Jaxon stared out at the serene surroundings as he contemplated what the director told him. Of the countless assassinations that he’d been sent to carry out, it was that first one that remained so indelible. It was the only time an error had occurred throughout his illustrious career.

The news that the son had actually survived should have brought him joy. It did not. And now, the same company—the same organization that had sent him out to kill so many times before—was about to send him out once again. Jaxon smirked. He saw right through their bureaucracy about mission objectives. He knew the underlying order instantly, and it was to kill Pablo Guzman. Now, he really was in a no-win situation: accept the mission to kill a man that he’d already thought was dead, or refuse the mission and risk losing everything he’d ever known. Literally.

As he contemplated this, Jaxon wondered if the second option would be better in the long run. To erase the memories of every person that he’d killed had a certain appeal. But what else might he lose? The memory of Lily? Of Celeste? His parents? His childhood? When would it end?

“Jaxon?” Howe said, bringing him back to the present. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, I’m good. I was just … thinking,” Jaxon said. “So, what’s the plan? Am I to go back to Mexico and cut the head off of the snake?”

“Not exactly. What we’ve been able to gather is that the drug is not being manufactured on earth. Our chemists have determined that the production cannot be replicated at our gravity level, so it stands to reason that it’s being produced on a space station. Yet another reason we want you as our man,” Howe said.

“Do we know which one or do you suggest I go gallivanting through space until I stumble upon the right one?” Jaxon asked, his words saturated with disgust.

“Ha. Perry said that you had a sense of humor,” Howe said, smiling. “The answer to your question is both: yes
and
no. First, the no. We do not know precisely which station the facility is located on. We do, however, know that it is in the outer ring.”

“Well, the outer ring was going to be my next stop on my run from the killers,” Jaxon said.

Howe nodded his head. “The problem is that Pablo is known to occupy multiple stations in that region. His family business has grown since the development of the drug, and he’s expanded his empire to cover prostitution, human trafficking, and gambling. You may or may not be aware, but there are at least a dozen casino and gambling houses scattered throughout the region. Your guess is as good as ours as to which station is being used to produce the drug.”

“And you expect me to do this alone? It will take me months to track down the location.”

“No, no. You’ll have company. We’ll be sending you with a team. Besides yourself, we’ve assembled three additional candidates to fill out your detachment.”

“A single detachment to search through a dozen outer ring space stations? And all the while, I’ll be avoiding a continual barrage of assassination attempts? Why not just send active agents that are already in the region? I know they exist; I was part of several detachments during my time with the company.”

“In a perfect world, Jaxon, that’s exactly what we’d do. However, Guzman has certain … political ties around the world. Simply sending in a hit team in today’s environment would be a bureaucratic nightmare,” Howe said, dancing around the true mission directive.

“Exactly why I left the GSA. I was tired of being your weapon,” Jaxon said, throwing the implied assassination back into Howe’s face.

“Be that as it may, this is off book. Your team will consist of retired agents, along with a single chemist to aid in your search.”

“So, I get an untrained scientist and two additional agents that are probably older than dirt? Am I clear on things?” Jaxon asked scornfully.

Howe stared at Jaxon impatiently. “The chemist who’s going along has been fully trained as a field agent, although he has no real experience.”

“And the two retired agents? Do I get to at least pick who I’ll be working with?” Jaxon asked, Gillette’s face flashing in his mind, as he would have been his number one choice. He cringed.

“Unfortunately, no. Your team has already been selected. As you might imagine, locating decommissioned agents that are suitable for field work is quite a challenge.”

Jaxon nodded, fully realizing the gravity of the situation. The moment he saw Evans’ face on that landing platform, he knew that he was screwed. Now, with everything that the director had just told him, he was confident in his initial gut reaction.

“Well, when do I get to meet my flunkies?” Jaxon asked, exasperated at the situation.

“Ironically, you’ve met one of them already. Miles Oliver has been fully briefed on the mission and is on site and ready to proceed.”

“And the others? Besides the scientist, that is,” Jaxon asked nervously. He sensed the director wasn’t telling him everything.

“Ah, yes. The final member of your team is on her way as we speak.”

A shocked look spread across Jaxon’s face. “She?”

“Yes. I think you might even know her. The final member of your team is Camille Parker,” Howe said, obviously aware of the implications of the past relationship.

“Sonofabitch,” Jaxon mumbled.
Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her?
Jaxon wondered.

As Jaxon digested this last bit of information, Howe retreated to his attaché and withdrew a commPad, a paper-thin communication and information device.

“The personnel files for your team are all on here. Give them a read through. And for God’s sake, clean yourself up,” Howe said, finally commenting on Jaxon’s appearance. “You’ll find everything you need in the lower levels of the facility. There’s a barber on sublevel two that will fix you right up. After you’ve cleaned up, you can get outfitted on sublevel three. By then, the rest of your team should be on site, and you can begin planning your mission.”

Jaxon lowered himself into a chair and stared blankly at the GSA logo emblazoned on the commPad. He contemplated how he would react when he saw her again. When he saw his fiancée—who, until now, thought he was dead.

27

After dropping his belongings off in his bunkroom on sublevel one, Jaxon proceeded to the showers to get cleaned up. Although he’d had a brief shower on the yacht, he could’ve spent hours underneath that showerhead, relaxing. He’d understood the effects of being off planet for an extended period of time would be substantial, but he was surprised at the severity.

When Jaxon felt that he’d used up the last drop of hot water, he reluctantly turned off the shower valve and dried off. Stepping out of the shower, he noticed that his clothing had been removed, and a pile of neatly folded fatigues had been left in their place. They were quite similar to what he’d worn when an active agent, but with some modern twists. The entire uniform seemed to fit him perfectly, and he questioned how they got his size so quickly.

His next stop was the so-called barber. He sat Jaxon down in the chair and went to work, cleaning up the rat’s nest that existed on his head. Twenty minutes and eight inches of hair later, Jaxon was a new man. In addition to the drastic haircut, he’d gotten a close shave, saving a goatee at his request. Still, it was a drastic appearance change from what Jaxon had composed over the past eight years.

Back in his room, he stood in front of the mirror, continuing to analyze what would no doubt take some getting used to. The purpose of letting himself go, for so long, was no longer necessary. He didn’t need to hide anymore, and he felt better about himself. His self-admitted admiration was halted by a knock on the door.

Jaxon opened the door to a friendly face. Evans stood alone, smiling. “Can I come in?”

Jaxon stepped aside, allowing the assistant director into his compact bunkroom.