Chapter Nine

I t wasn’t like he’d lived a life of excitement and danger before Savage had knocked on his door. Not literally knocked, of course. The figurative challenge or call or whatever he might call it was far more demanding.

The man had seemed…familiar. Like an old face from the past, peeking in uninvited. He hadn’t longed for action again, and perhaps action was something of a misnomer anyway. He’d always remained far back and stared at the world through the lenses of a scope—that small, perfect window—before he killed them.

And he’d gotten rather good at it too. People told him that what he did was complicated. They produced numerous numbers and papers to show him how complicated it would have been for everyone else, but for him, it simply wasn’t. He hated the fact that they all thought he was doing something spectacular when the real truth was that he did the coward’s thing. His particular brand of false heroism was to hang back and allow other people to die while he helped a lucky few to survive.

He drew in a deep, steadying breath. Of all the places in the world to work again, he’d never thought it would be Philadelphia. He’d visited the city before, of course, but never thought he would do his work this close to home. There were rules about not working on US soil, but he didn’t really think those rules applied in certain situations. People were out there killing soldiers, men and women who put their lives on the line to defend their country, and nothing was done about it. Well, until now.

At first, he’d simply read the files. They’d stirred enough interest for him to call friends who had served with various units. Most of them remembered Anderson and agreed that he’d been a man of strong determination in the field with even harder resolve to save his men when he’d been taken off. The circumstances that resulted in him being pulled from active duty were tragic, and he’d evidently made it his duty to keep anything like that from happening again.

Then he’d been forced into an operation. Mixon hadn’t been able to find any real details except that any military personnel tied to it had died and been shipped back from various locations. The process followed the predictable Pentagon response when they tried to cover something up. The paperwork on the operation was light and most of what was there had been redacted. The message was clear. It had been written, handed to the corporation in charge, and edited before they sent it back.

The sole sponsor of the operation had been a company called Pegasus which was, interestingly enough, the company Anderson had immediately quit the military to join.

He wasn’t stupid and could connect the dots. Someone with the ex-colonel’s history wouldn’t make a change like that so suddenly without a reason. Savage had told him the reason was to make sure the killing stopped. He didn’t trust the operative, but he trusted his superior to make the right call. Not only that, Mixon was there to help him save the lives of the men and women in the field. He felt this was an honorable enough cause to break him out of his retirement.

That sentiment still applied, even if the job so far had been merely overwatch for Anderson. He’d make sure the man survived long enough to fulfill his intentions, while Savage and Davis were sent off to find something or…someone. They hadn’t really filled him in on the details.

His mission was boring, obviously, but a pleasant kind of boring. He was able to let his mind drift freely while it effortlessly did what everyone thought was so amazing and difficult. He studied the world around him—without a scope this time—but with the single-minded purpose to locate and identify possible danger.

Anderson had told him that any threats he saw should be handled with extreme prejudice. In retrospect, that was a good thing since extreme prejudice was really the only way he knew how to deal with this particular kind of problem.

Mixon tilted his seat back a couple of degrees in response to his body’s need for occasional movement. Undistracted, his mind continued to work like a sponge and absorbed anything and everything as his eyes sifted and studied every inch of his surroundings. No threats had made themselves apparent as he watched Anderson take his wife and kid out to a nice dinner. He wasn’t sure what kind of restaurant it was, but whoever called their place Interlude deserved the prize for most pretentious restaurant name ever. With a plaque, he decided, like when someone became a Guinness world record holder.

“Who takes their kid out for a date night, anyway?” Mixon asked while he chewed on the beef jerky he’d brought along for the trip.

“Well, I suppose it makes sense,” he mused aloud when he felt the need to answer himself. “The man thinks his family is in danger—with good reason—and he wants to make sure they’re safe. He’s hired someone to keep him safe so it would make sense to let that person protect the rest of his family too. It’s like someone sharing their Netflix account, except I’m the account in this situation.”

Yes, he was talking to himself. He’d learned the habit in the various dull moments of watching over a city while he waited for his second of an opening. It was important to be able to enjoy his own company since SpecOps rarely teamed him up with a spotter on those missions. He’d needed to learn to enjoy his own company and did so mostly in silence. Sometimes, though, this included being able to hold a debate, argument, or conversation with himself to help pass the time.

He took the last bite of the spicy jerky and tucked the packaging into the plastic bag he’d brought for precisely that reason. It was a company car, not his own, and it was good manners to return a vehicle in as good a condition as you got it, if not better.

Mixon’s gaze drifted to the inside of the restaurant as Anderson leaned in to kiss his wife. The young son made a face and his parents laughed and continued the kiss despite his exaggerated protest.

They seemed a nice family. He had thought of having one himself and even met a few girls who fit the criteria. There weren’t many out there who could tolerate a man of his particular eccentricities for too long, however, and they ended up leaving.

It was for the best, really. He’d had a hard time enduring their eccentricities as well. But he’d been willing to try, at least.

Anderson seemed similarly eccentric, and he’d found someone. Of course, whether he’d found her before he’d turned eccentric was up for debate, really.

Mixon took a sip of water. He’d put himself on a timer to stay hydrated but avoid overindulging. There were aspects of keeping someone under surveillance that he really felt were a last resort. Once they had finished their day out and headed back to the apartment building, he would be able to relax and get some sleep.

He could tell why Anderson didn’t always have his family locked up in the place they called home. Honestly, gold depositories were less secure. The ex-colonel might have used himself as bait, but he didn’t seem the type to use his family as bait too.

Then again, his wife had a career of her own to pursue. His superior hadn’t enlightened the sniper as to what that was exactly, but she had a job that kept her busy. And the young one needed school, which meant that lives needed to continue despite the threats.

Which, of course, was why he was there.

He’d followed the tyke to school, returned, and tailed Anderson to fetch the kid again and the mom from the firm where she worked, and directly to dinner from there.

Ah, that was why they’d brought the boy along for date night.

He shifted in his seat and squinted sharply at an SUV that pulled up outside the restaurant. That particular parking space had to be paid for, but nobody left the vehicle to do so. The windows were tinted so it would be impossible to see inside at this hour. There were always ways around that if one made the effort. He looked around to confirm that only one car had arrived.

If the police would show up, that would be fantastic. He could see if the new arrivals would move to avoid a ticket. Unfortunately, another hasty sweep of the area confirmed that he’d have no such luck.

He stepped out of his car, a nondescript blue sedan, and retrieved his phone from his pocket as he strolled casually toward the car. His one-sided heated debate would hopefully allay any suspicions the occupants might have.

“No, Amber, you said I could have him this weekend,” Mixon said to nobody in particular. “I have the whole weekend planned. Come on. You can’t change the schedule like that.”

People avoided conversations like the one he faked like the damned plague. Anyone who heard him would immediately pretend they hadn’t. Those who noticed him would instantly forget him—including the group of men inside the car, hopefully.

While the tint provided little more than shadows, he could discern five people inside, bulky and pressed together. Weapons too, he acknowledged if the barrel aimed at the roof of the SUV was any indication. This was another group of people keeping an eye on the family but for very different purposes. His role was as a protective detail, and you didn’t need five people with guns for that.

Black SUVs were the kind of vehicle usually chosen because they were big and, while obtrusive, common enough that people wouldn’t give them a second glance while on a busy street. They were large enough to disguise a large motor and armor and the tinted windows could be used to conceal bullet-proof glass.

All these benefits added to a significant advantage when you sent a hit squad to eliminate a troublesome former colonel.

He maintained what he felt was an Oscar-worthy conversation while he swung away and returned to his car. It included threats of lawyers, a little making up, and more anger to embarrass people into not looking while he armed himself with the weapon given to him by Pegasus. Well, Savage, technically. There wasn’t much he could carry across state lines without drawing the police and all the other alphabeticals onto his tail.

The operative had, it seemed, something of an armory, all with the serial numbers filed off. It seemed pointless to worry about the problems that would arise from that if the police got involved.

All these disconcerting truths meant it was best not to use a gun unless absolutely necessary. Not only would it attract all the wrong kinds of attention, but he also didn’t want to have to jettison the only weapon he had.

“No, I can’t tag along with you,” he shouted into the phone and strode in the direction of the vehicle once more. A plan began to take shape in his head. “I have my parents coming over for Thanksgiving, that’s why. It’s the last weekend before the holidays—which you’ve made all about you, I don’t need to remind you—and I deserve to spend some time with my son. Ow! Fudge.”

He stumbled against the SUV, banged his shin painfully into the protruding bumper, and finished the maneuver with a trip and roll alongside until he reached the door.

“There’s a darn fudging car in the way, parked all the way up on the fudging sidewalk,” Mixon yelled belligerently. He swung a hard kick at the bumper, followed by another at the tire. With the phone still held close to his head, he released a string of his almost-curses and vented his frustrations on the vehicle in a way that would both annoy occupants inside and make the passersby look elsewhere.

“Hey,” a man shouted as he finally slid out of the SUV and fixed him with a hard glare. He was dressed in what looked like an expensive suit with a holster hidden under the jacket. That little nugget confirmed Mixon’s instincts as to their weaponry and purpose. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Watch your language,” he snapped in response.

“What?” Confusion was immediately followed by alarm and shock as he staggered and clutched his throat. Blood squeezed between his fingers from the cut Mixon had inflicted with the knife he’d hidden with his phone. He shoved him back into the passenger seat of the vehicle and thrust in behind him.

“I said watch your language,” he muttered as he scrambled over his sagging victim and drove his knife toward his next target.

Cars were tricky places to stage a fight, but it was always easier when surprise was on your side. It was the one place where no one wanted to take advantage of superior numbers to use firearms.

The driver jerked his head up from his phone and surprise registered briefly on his face.

“Sorry about this.” The operative stabbed his blade into the broad chest before the man even registered the extent of the danger. It sliced smoothly through the Kevlar lining in the suit and plunged easily into his heart. One twist brought instant death. Mixon grunted his satisfaction. At least, with the driver eliminated, he had a reasonably captive audience.

He yanked the passenger door shut to keep the curious at bay. The sound seemed to snap the three gunmen in the back from their shock but before they could fully react, he plunged his torso through the gap between the seats.

The SUV shook as two of his adversaries punched wildly at him and the third tried to club him with the stock of the submachine gun that was obviously his weapon of choice. One of the fists landed a sliding blow on the operative’s cheek, but the heavy weapon missed and connected with a dull thunk against the cheek of the lucky assailant. His luck immediately ran out, of course, when Mixon shoved his blade with the full force of his scramble behind it. There was no resistance as it plunged into his stomach, then yanked it out and thrust it into the man’s groin and twisted to sever the femoral artery.

The man in the passenger seat hadn’t yet succumbed to his wound although his groans suggested he wouldn’t last long. Still, he flailed wildly with one hand as if to help his teammates despite the blood that seeped and gurgled around his labored breathing. All he managed to do was turn the radio on as his fingers fumbled on the dashboard. The loud, heavy beat provided an intense but almost incongruous counterpoint to the life-and-death struggle.

Mixon grimaced and wiped the sticky handle of his knife on his victim’s thigh and hefted it more firmly. The man’s hands clawed at his wounds, but a quick glance confirmed that he’d be dead in a few minutes based on his rapid blood loss.

Two men remained, but the one on the right seemed momentarily distracted by his teammate’s imminent demise. Their partner jostled the wounded man in an effort to free up a little elbow room as he started to draw a combat knife from a sheath on his belt. The operative moved quickly but awkwardly. With his legs half in the front of the car and the difficult angle, he wouldn’t risk a strike that would either miss or do little damage. For now, he struggled to keep the knife in its sheath while he tried to wrestle his body through and into a better position.

He grunted softly when the man to his right punched him hard in the ribs and forced the breath out of his lungs in a rush. His body contracted and his weapon slid from his hand, but he used the impetus to drag his legs through into the back seat area and drive his knee into the man’s nose. It was made so much easier by the fact that he had ended up all but on his adversary’s lap

“Fuck!” The thug recoiled and shielded his broken nose.

The assassin on his left had used the distraction to draw the blade completely. Weaponless, Mixon lunged across the now very dead man in the middle to grasp the wrist holding the knife.

He groaned and struggled to breathe while he grappled in his clumsy position to gain some kind leverage over the man who still held a dangerous measure of control over the weapon.

Strong hands snaked around his legs when the thug with the broken nose tried to drag him off his teammate. The operative grunted and kicked out and his assailant yelped when a boot connected hard—hopefully with the swollen and painful nose, he thought belligerently.

“Yeah, you get her good!” someone yelled from outside. Three younger men stood there, and one laughed and pumped his hips suggestively.

Under any other circumstances, Mixon might have laughed. Typical of that age, they’d immediately thought someone was having sex inside the vehicle. Thankfully, the tinted windows would preserve the fallacy of an amorous encounter long enough for him to get the job done before anyone thought to ask questions.

He released his grasp on the man’s wrist and his surprised adversary cursed when the blade nicked his own cheek with the unexpected jerk free. The operative lashed out with his boot again to deliver another blind strike into the assassin at his rear.

The blade swung toward him and he rolled instinctively off the dead man’s knees scant seconds before the weapon punched into the beefy thigh. For a moment, Mixon almost panicked at the thought that he might be trapped in the tiny gap between the man’s legs and the back of the seats.

His hand clawed the carpeting and closed around the sticky comfort of his blade. Adrenaline surged and with a yell, he pounded his other fist into the exposed groin of the man who raised his weapon to strike. The assassin keened and doubled over, and the operative grasped a handful of his assailant’s hair to haul himself free. As he pushed out of the narrow space, he swung his knife underhand and into the thug’s chest. For a desperate, wild strike powered mainly by desperation, it might actually count as a miracle. The metal sank deeply and without resistance, directly above the fifth rib, to bring almost instant death.

He dragged the knife out to free a splash of warm blood as the last heartbeats pumped a few times before they ceased entirely. The silence was absolute, a breath-holding moment that rushed in as the adrenaline-charged impetus faded.

When his pulse had calmed, he turned to the last man, who seemed to have lost all will to fight.

“No.” His final target twisted, scrabbled at the door, and managed to pop the lever without tearing his gaze from the operative.

Mixon clutched his collar before he could throw the door open and leaned forward to make sure it was closed.

“I really am sorry.” He honestly tried to be as empathetic as he could, but the effect was no doubt hindered by the somewhat macabre sight of him sprawled over the two dead men. His adversary fumbled to draw a knife to defend himself, but his movements were slow and jerky—the kind made by a man in shock who looked his own end in the eye. He wasn’t quick enough, and Mixon’s deft swing severed his carotid artery with a precise, practiced motion.

The man uttered a garbled sound of protest and slumped against the door. His fingers clawed frantically in an effort to staunch the blood flow, but a few seconds later, his eyes lost their focus and the body sagged.

Mixon dragged in a deep breath. He crawled over the dead men to the door on the street side and cracked it tentatively. Hopefully, he’d attract less attention if he exited there. One of the men had hung a coat over the back of the seat and he yanked it off and fumbled a few times, half unbalanced on his awkward perch, until he managed to get it on. It was a little large but would suffice, and the dark color would probably hide any blood he and it had collected.

As he patted his victim’s pockets to retrieve what he could—only a single cell phone, in this case—he acknowledged that the apparent argument had been a very effective ploy. No one, including the would-be assassins, had noticed his gloves, something that might have been a dead giveaway. They’d all been too busy avoiding looking at him to see what was right under their noses.

Which meant fingerprints were something he wouldn’t have to worry about. He didn’t think he’d left blood behind, and of course, no one could predict the odd hair falling out. Still, with the amount of blood and gore around, his paltry offering would hopefully slide into the comfortable space of contaminated fluids and be unusable.

Mixon shrugged, slid out of the car as casually as he could, and adjusted the coat as he strolled toward his car.

He grinned when he felt the weight of the knife he’d also taken where it nestled in the back of his waistband. It was a good blade, a little longer and straighter than the one he’d taken from Savage’s armory and with a keen edge and good balance. His grin broadened. They would call him two-knife Terry from this point forward.

No, that was stupid, but it was also amusing.

Once safely in his car and away from curious eyes, he took the phone from his pocket, pressed the button for an emergency call, and dialed nine-one-one.

“Hello, operator?” he asked, disguising his voice. “I saw a couple of folks fighting in a car. Or screwing, maybe. Or both. I couldn’t really tell. Either way, it was very disturbing, and if you could send someone over that would be great. Oh, yeah, the license is AMP 299, and it’s parked in front of the Interlude restaurant on 42nd. Thanks.”

He hung up and lobbed the phone out of the window into the oncoming traffic. Anderson, with his wife and kid, stepped out of the restaurant, blissfully unaware of the sinister relevance of the SUV they walked past on the way to their car.

“Why did I do it with a British accent?” he asked himself and shook his head as he started the engine to pull onto the road behind his charges.