If the asset knew he was going to die, he didn’t show it.
Parkerson drove blindly until the road beneath the Cadillac turned to dirt. The sun had set; it was dark beyond his headlights. Fog swirled up and across the road. The Cadillac was suddenly stifling hot.
Parkerson flipped on the AC and drove in silence, trying to keep his breathing steady. He was afraid, he realized. And sickened, nauseated by the messiness that was sure to come.
The asset sat beside him and didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just stared out the window and waited.
The road petered out ahead. So did the trees. Parkerson killed the engine and cut off the headlights. Climbed out of the Cadillac and stood in the gloom. There was water ahead; Parkerson could hear it. Hell, he was practically swimming already, the air was so humid. The night seemed to close in around him.
Parkerson walked ahead of the Cadillac to the edge of the road. Looked down and saw water, brackish and swampy. The fog swirled around him. There was no one around. This was as good a spot as any.
He walked back to the Cadillac, every nerve in his body tingling. He’d left his door slightly open, and the dome light burned through the gloom, the only light for miles. The night around the car was dead dark.
Parkerson studied the asset through the windshield of the Cadillac. He’d trained assets for nearly five years now. The assets had killed nearly forty people. Parkerson figured the twenty years he’d put in at his straight job had resulted, indirectly, in the deaths of thousands more. But he still hadn’t grown comfortable taking lives himself. Not yet. Death was easy in the abstract. When it was numbers and figures, clean and absolute. Killing itself, though, was always messy. Parkerson looked at the kid and wished he had a gun. Something quick and efficient, at least.
There was rope in the trunk of the car. A tire iron. Parkerson popped the trunk and picked up the tire iron. Tested its weight. His stomach churned. His pulse roared in his ears. Was he doing this?
The asset still hadn’t moved. Didn’t he know what was coming, somewhere in that fucked-up brain of his? Did he care?
Parkerson swung the tire iron experimentally. Wondered how it would feel when it struck flesh and bone. How much blood it would draw. How long the kid would take to die. He felt suddenly nauseous. Tried to spit, found his mouth dry. He swore. Shook out his arms. The asset watched him.
Something in the car was chiming, electronic. Parkerson realized he’d left the keys in the ignition. The car had been chiming the whole time. Parkerson hadn’t noticed. Either the asset hadn’t, either, or he just didn’t care.
It just seemed like such a waste. The other assets had earned their deaths. They had failed, each of them, had grown soft, developed defects. This asset here was still perfectly good. He could still follow orders. He could still kill at will.
Parkerson tapped the tire iron against his palm. So the Richard O’Brien alias was shot. So what? The apartment in Philadelphia was registered corporate. Another shell company, untraceable. Even if the police knew the asset came from Philly, they didn’t have an address. The kid could grow a beard if he needed to. Wear a disguise.
A new alias. That’s all the asset needed. The rental car scam was shot, too, but Parkerson could work around that. The asset was still valid. He was still fundamentally intact. He still had at least a couple kills left.
Parkerson looked back at the car. The asset hadn’t moved. Parkerson swore and threw the tire iron in the backseat. Slid behind the wheel and sat there a moment, feeling the sweat drip down the back of his shirt, feeling his heart slow to normal pace. He took a long breath and turned the key in the ignition. “Fuck it,” he said, shifting into reverse. “Let’s get out of here.”