The Watcher leaned his head back on the car’s headrest as he wiggled his ass against the black leather, trying to get comfortable. His eyes never left the Mustang, waiting and watching for any movement from the pharmacist.
His mind drifted back to the day eighteen months ago when he’d managed to secure an audience with the murderous matriarch, Delilah Hussein.
He had arrived at the rendezvous point in al-Qiza, a small hamlet east of Damascus held by ISIS. The sun burned like a blast furnace. Sweat poured down his back. His parched throat hurt every time he swallowed. The slight breeze kicked up powdery clouds of sand. The white SUV stopped three feet in front of him. Three large bearded men alighted.
They had shoved him into the backseat; his wallet, watch, and contents of his pockets were confiscated. His hands were cuffed in front of him, a black hood placed over his head. The ride seemed to last for hours. What mattered was gaining access to Hussein’s organization, The Simoon.
They stopped inside a walled compound. Once inside, the hood was removed and The Watcher guided down a long white hallway. He was deposited in a well-appointed living room.
A fine leather sofa sat along a large wall from which hung a massive woven tapestry. The couch was flanked by identical walnut side tables inlaid with mother of pearl and a matching coffee table.
The Watcher was forced into a comfortable arm chair angled beside the couch and tables. He sat, wrists cuffed, guarded by his host/captors for several long minutes.
A door opened and a smallish woman appeared wrapped in a green silk thobe with ornate embroidery at the neckline and a black woven belt wrapped several times around her thin waist. Her dark eyes gleamed from behind her hijab as she stepped forward.
One of men from the car nudged The Watcher.
“Stand.”
He complied and looked at the woman.
The small amount of hair visible around her face and the fine wrinkles at the corner of her eyes hinted at her age. This woman was well beyond forty, maybe fifty.
“Are you Delilah Hussein?” The Watcher asked.
The woman nodded and motioned for a tray to be brought. A servant wearing a brown tunic offered The Watcher coffee. He waved it away.
“I’m told you wish to become part of my organization.”
The Watcher nodded. A skeptical frown weighed down the edges of Hussein’s lips.
“Tell me why.”
“I have skills and resources that will benefit your cause.”
“Such as.”
Movement coming from the Mustang interrupted The Watcher’s trance. Jason Rodgers had opened the car door. The dome light came on. The Watcher noticed the weapon clutched in his right hand.
Rodgers slipped into a chair at an empty table along the wall. He waved down a waitress and ordered a Miller Lite. He scanned the room. It didn’t take long to find his target. Clyde Hutton, the former guard at the Williamsburg Regional Jail, was exactly where Jason expected him to be.
Hutton sat near the elevated runway jutting into the throng of male gawkers looking up at the exotic dancer. The drunken Hutton pulled a single from the wad in his hand and laid it on the stage in front of him beside the ten or eleven other bills residing there.
The dancer was a forty-something grandmotherly type who looked like she’d had various tucks and lifts, giving her face a plastic appearance. Her fake breasts were too large for her medium frame. It looked as if her surgeon had stuffed a pair of over-inflated soccer balls in her chest. Two tasseled pasties covered her nipples and a flap of wrinkled belly skin hung over her bikini bottom, neutralizing what little sex appeal she possessed.
Nonetheless, Hutton seemed to be taken with the show she provided, attested to by the ones he loosely tossed at her feet. Leaning forward on his elbows on the ledge just below the stage, he saw no one but her. A wry smile curved up the side of his face. A pitcher, holding dregs of beer and coated by patches of suds, rested beside him and his half-full glass.
Jason’s side view of the man confirmed the good news. The glassy look in his eye and the miniscule oscillation of his torso brought a smile to Jason’s lips. He was shit-faced. It would make what he was about to do easier.
Jason scanned the large room and sipped his brew. The place was crowded but not full. The largely male audience sat at tables or along the runway quietly taking in the dancer and the scantily-clad waitresses, their oversized breasts bulging from tight tops and hips hugged by skimpy bottoms. They had perfected the bend-at-the-waist-to-give-the-patron-a-good-look-at-your-cleavage bow. By the high-and-tight haircuts, Jason knew many of them were military types out on the town from nearby Joint Base Langley-Eustis.
Hutton was flanked by two other men who did not appear to be with him, benefiting and partaking of the view provided by the former guard’s money.
The man to his left caught the eye of a passing off-duty dancer and leaned back to say something to her. They chatted briefly. The woman nodded and smiled.
The man stood up and followed the dancer through the tables and smoke to a curtained backroom. Keeping it out of sight, Jason removed the Colt from the waistband of his back and slid it around to the front. Seizing his chance, he stood up and walked toward Clyde Hutton.
“Where’s the body?” Isaiah’s team leader whispered to his scout.
His soldier had returned holding a bloodied knife. The scout pointed toward the marina building. “Behind the building under the bushes.”
“Who was it?”
“A drifter. He was huddled at the corner of the building.”
“Anyone else?”
The man shook his head.
“Get the vehicle!”
The scout wiped the blade on the leg of his trousers. “Yes, sir!” He moved off toward their ride.
The leader turned to the rest of the team huddled in four feet of water just off the small beach. He waved them forward, pointing toward the dark SUV parked twenty yards beyond.
The leader jogged to the marina building and circled it. He found the body stuffed between the building and a row of thick bushes fronting the water. He pushed through the branches and shined a small flashlight up and down the corpse. The throat was expertly cut, sliced from ear to ear. A thick coating of blood covered the dirty, hole-filled shirt.
The soldier scanned the ground but found no trail of blood to the body.
Well done!
His soldier had dragged the man to this spot before killing him, then obliterated the drag marks.
Hopefully, this would be the only glitch in their mission.
He heard the engine of the SUV come to life. The leader emerged from behind the building and climbed into the passenger side.
Before closing the door, he said out loud to the other four men of his team, “Let’s go.”