Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
“You want me to kill Kennedy?”
It's one of those questions old farts ask each other. Like, 'where were you when Kennedy died?'. Organisation players don't get to be old farts much, but I wondered what would happen, if I ever got to be old, if someone asked me that question and I said 'looking over the sights of a Glock'. Hell, I probably wouldn't even have to kill them afterwards – the heart attack would do them nicely.
“No, dear. Well, and yes, of course.”
Mom could be like that sometimes. Like, she'd be trying to work out what we should have for dinner, and she'd be, like, 'Well, I could do steak. With tomato sauce. On the pasta. If we didn't have steak, I mean.' Me, I got to eat a lot of pizza. Especially pizza Mom hadn't cooked.
“No. I mean, yes, do kill him, dear. He's been – or rather, he was being – rather a naughty little boy. Skimming from Organisation accounts is perfectly fine and understandable. So long as I'm the one doing the skimming. Otherwise, we tend to have a review of the agent's retirement plan.”
“Huh? Kennedy was ours?”
“Only indirectly, dear. Marilyn was the brains. We had such plans for her. But oh, did that girl love her knives... '43 we just wrote off to high spirits – enthusiasm. But after that thing in '47 – she'd even got herself her own silver topped cane! We just had to move her to Special Projects. But then Bobby... Well. He never liked her. Clumsy, though. We had to wipe the whole room down. Poor Marilyn. Still, we took care of dear Bobby. He wasn't our man. Or girl...” Mom did her shark-grin. “Never forget, dear. The Organisation looks after its own.” Her eyes went cold. “Unless I tell them not to, of course.”
“So you want me to kill Kennedy?”
“As a favour, dear. Since you'll be in the area. But no. He's not your target. There's someone else.” For a moment, Mom sounded almost scared. “He's going to try to stop you. I want you to look him over, make sure you'll know him when you... But I'm getting ahead of myself. Just make sure you know him, dear.”
Sounded, hell. Mom was scared. And nothing scared Mom. Nothing. “Mom – er, I mean, boss - he sounds like Bad News. With a capital 'fuck him'. Why don't I just take him down too? Since he's going to be there anyway?”
Mom grinned. But for the first time, I didn't hear sharks screaming. She was faking it, and I wasn't even a guy. “First, darling, because he works for me. Or rather, he will be working... I mean, was working...” Mom's lips moved, like she was trying to work out whether they were hers or not. “This time thing you humans... I mean, we humans... I mean, it's so confusing! Never mind, dear. You can't kill him then. He has things to do. For me. No, I just want you to make sure you'd know him again.”
“You mean, while this shit-hot baddass is trying to kill me, while I'm trying to kill Kennedy, you want me to ask him to hold off a minute while I take his fingerprints?” Sometimes Mom isn't so big on the planning part of things. She just tells people to get things done – the how is their problem.
“Darling, I know you think you're clever. And really, sometimes you almost are. But – how do you children put it these days? You don't know jack? Well, you really, really don't. But don't worry dear. I've thought about that.” Apparently, this wasn't one of those times. And whatever it wasn't, what it was, was a Really Really Big Deal. Because Mom didn't call me stupid very often – but when she did, she didn't kid. And all of a sudden, I could hear sharks screaming again...
* * *
Dealey Plaza – November 22nd, 1963
Just in, a bullet, and out. Oh – and a kickass-badass to check out, but not to 'check out', so I'd know him some time to be defined later. A badass Bad enough to scare Mom. Who, like, never scared. Just another day at the office, without an office to be in.
The buzz of Dealey Plaza filled my ears.
November 22nd, 1963. It's one of those dates. If you're old enough for it to mean anything at all, it means pretty much everything. Hell, I'd barely needed CG to run up a case file. There were more web sites, more pictures, more precise diagrams and who-what-whens than you could shake a poison flechette firing umbrella (I kid you not – it's out there) at. So it hadn't been hard to make sure the Horn landed me on the grassy knoll. Or rather, not me. That was what Mom meant. Because CG had some rings for me. One was a neat glamor ring, without any lace or stockings required. It didn't make me invisible, but it made folks not want to look at me, or if they did, to just catch me out of the corner of their eye. And not even me, because that was other ring. It made me into not me. It made me into – well, nobody. I put it on, and I checked a mirror. Whoever he was, he was nobody. He had one of those faces you could forget while you were still looking at him. Not cute, not ugly – like, nobody.
There was only one problem. I knew him. Like, knew him. And something was busy telling me I'd be a lot better off if I didn't ask Mom why.
The stuff I'd read had all said the same thing. Johnny-boy went down to a 6.5x52mm brass Carcano. Now, I'd do a lot for the Organisation. Mostly because I was pretty sure they'd blow my damn head off if I didn't. But lugging a Carcano 91/38 carbine round with me wasn't my idea of smart. So I talked to the shop back at the ranch, and they did some work on a couple of Glock 9mm pieces. Not mine – nobody touched my Glock but me. But even though they'd only fire once, I had two slugs ready to rock. And like I told CG – I don’t miss. One would be enough. So here I was, and I could hear the car coming. Which was when I turned, and saw him. The figure nobody was looking at – the figure nobody was noticing. He walked towards me, his gun out and a bead on the side of my head. And it was like I was looking in that fucking mirror again. Because the guy with the gun was the guy I'd seen back at the ranch. And I figured, of all the targets he was going to kill – he wasn't gonna wax himself. So I reached out, and I tried to 'feel' him, like I could feel pretty much anyone near me, a tail, a target – and I couldn't. Because there wasn’t anything there. Not a damn thing. Just – empty. And it started to make sense. Because I'd bet he wasn't from here. Not here-here, and not here-now. I'd bet any penny I had, and all the ones I could steal off anyone who hadn't nailed them down, if I was a Horny bitch, he was a Horny bastard. So as he stood and stared, I smiled, and put a finger to my lips. I raised my gun – and fired at the oncoming motorcade. And he watched me as I took my flask from my pocket – and the smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air.
* * *
Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
“It's done.”
“I know, dear. Otherwise, all sorts of people would have forgotten how dear Johnny died. Which they haven't. So you managed that part, at least. And what about the real mission?”
“He was there, Mom.”
“And you'll know him again?”
“I'll know him, Mom.”
“Ah. Good. So he still doesn't wash often enough. Isn't that right, dear?”
That's when I put three rounds in Mom. A nice group, right in her chest. They didn't do any more than I expected, which meant they didn't do a damn thing. But I was pissed. “No, Mom. There wasn't a fucking smell.” Three more rounds. “It wasn't any damn thing.” Three more. “Because he wasn't fucking there. Even though he was. I was busy forgetting what he looked like while I was still looking at him. And I couldn't feel him, Mom. And you knew! You...” six rounds “... you fucking knew!”
“Yes, dear. He's like that. It's what made him so – useful.”
“He's one of ours?”
“Mine, dear. Not ours. Let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we? Yes. Or no. One of those. I know he was one of ours – mine, I mean. But there was... I mean is... I mean was... I think there was something I... we... a plan. And I can't remember! And I always remember! And whatever it is, it's his fault. Even if it isn't!” Mom was pacing. Mom was shouting. Mom was – well, whatever it was, it wasn't any Mom I'd seen before.
I waited. Then I waited some more. After a while, nothing happened. “Er – Mom?”
“Yes dear? Oh. Back already? Is it done?” Mom raised an eyebrow.
Whatever was going on, I was pretty sure I wanted it to be going on with someone else. To someone else. “Yes, mom. It's done.”
“Excellent. Then I have another job for you. Do it right, and there's a bonus in it for you, dear.” Mom smiled. I realised I knew how the sharks felt. The ones I always heard screaming. “Job, mom?”
“Yes, dear. Go talk to CG. He's got all you need.”
I went. He had. And after he'd finished telling me, there was only one thing left to do. So I checked my Glock – and I drank.
* * *
December 1475, Near Bucharest
I could hear the battle from behind the tree. Steel blades. Men dying. The men, I could care less. But the screams were useful. They'd probably cover any small sounds I made. After a moment, the air shivered, and he was there. I could tell it was him – mostly because I couldn't tell it was anyone else. He laid a gun-sack on the ground, unzipped it, and started to put the Barrett M82A1 together. If nothing else, he had great taste in guns. He set up, and steadied his sight on the target. I could tell he hadn't noticed me. Of course, nobody ever did. Just like, I bet myself, nobody ever noticed him. That raised some questions. Questions I didn't think were going to get answered. At least, not by him. I stepped from behind the tree. At the last possible moment, he turned, his eyes locking mine. Which was flat out im-fucking-possible. Nobody ever saw me coming – nobody. I grinned. Well, apart from Sven and Maria. Not that it made any difference. Impossible or otherwise – he was toast. My trigger finger tensed – and a 357 slug hammered into his head. The Barrett fell, and he slumped over it. I slipped the Glock back into my thigh holster. I moved in, to clear the site. Mom would be real pissed if there was so much as a scrap of evidence. That was when CG stepped from behind a rock, gun in hand. I grinned some more. But this was my Queen Victoria grin. Something was wrong, and a grin was as good a cover as any. I started to reach for my Glock. “Hey, CG! I didn’t know you were riding shotgun!”
He shrugged. “It's a good job I am, I guess. We've got a problem.”
Crap. Crapcrapcrap. This wasn't just Bad. This was Badder than a Really Bad Thing on a Really Bad Day. For some reason, I wished the guy in the black leather duster wasn't busy being dead. For some reason, I knew he'd have fixed things. “What problem? I don't miss. Like, ever. He's dead, CG.”
CG shrugged. again “That's the problem, M. Or rather, you are. See, you're supposed to be dead now too. Or gone. Or never here. One of those. But we can fix that.” His gun came up.
They say you never hear the one that kills you. CG must have been using sub-sonic loads, because I almost did. Then the bullet ploughed into my hea…