Spectrum (eBook)

Chapter 2

One month later …

He heard the low growls before he saw the beasts. The sound of paws in dirt, bushes rustling. Then the roars and the screams. He ran, and one stepped in front of him and Zarina. It batted a paw, toying with them more than attacking. His mother shrieked and dove at the beast, yelling for him to run. He felt warm blood on his clothes, but didn’t know to whom it belonged. He ran and hid and listened as his mother was eaten alive.

But since the recent deaths he had witnessed in a South African squatter camp, the dream had changed.

Now, when his mother was being devoured, he was seeing through the lion’s eyes and feeling what it felt. He sunk in his teeth and tore her flesh, pinning her with his claws. He felt the blood in his mouth as he devoured her entrails while she still lived.

Then he felt something strike his shoulder, and he was instantly awake, reaching for both his knife and gun simultaneously.

“It’s time. Do your thing.” Dr. JoAnn Raskin said.

Idris Madeira, or Kruger as he was known professionally, scowled over at the arrogant little American. He knew what time it was, and his internal clock told him that he’d been awakened ten minutes too early. He checked his watch and confirmed the error. Sleep on a mission was often a luxury, and Kruger had learned long ago to take advantage of every moment of rest—because he never could tell when he might have to go days without closing his eyes.

The target would be sleeping by now. He had decided to wait until three in the morning to be sure. His pompous accomplice had complained and argued that 1:00 a.m. would be more than sufficient. But he overruled Raskin on all operational matters. He was the professional, after all, and had carried out similar assignments on numerous occasions.

The patient predator was always rewarded with the better kill.

From the passenger seat, Raskin handed him the syringe and the tube containing the Q-tip without saying a word, like he was some hunting dog being taken off the leash and told to run. If he hadn’t required the American’s knowledge and connections to complete this final job, he would have ended Raskin long ago. The haughty American certainly deserved it, probably more so than anyone else he had ever killed. But such an act of indulgent, emotional violence would have been rash and stupid, and Kruger had learned to play the long game from years of hard lessons and painful mistakes.

He stepped from the van and headed toward the small two-story home. It was blue-green with projecting eaves and a low-pitched gable roof covered in terra-cotta tiles. He had studied the layout of the house and the target’s routines and knew that Fred Little would be waiting in an upstairs bedroom or asleep in his La-Z-Boy in front of the television.

The Americans were so obsessed with their TVs. He and Zarina didn’t even own a television. If he wanted to catch a soccer game, they would travel down to the local sports bar or attend in person. He had better things to do with his time than watch others live their lives.

The preparations were all in place. Fred Little’s house key had been stolen from his pocket, imprinted, and returned. The security system code had been acquired by watching through a window using a telescopic lens as Fred entered it. Kruger simply walked into the house as if he were the owner returning from a hard day’s work.

As he ascended the stairs, he hugged the wall with his size 22 boots, stepping up one foot at a time, knowing that creaks and groans were seldom found on a stair’s innermost edge. His right hand held a black Beretta M9A1 pistol with a sound suppressor threaded over its barrel, although he had no intention of using the weapon. It was merely a precautionary measure.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he saw a dark face and the glow of eyes. He raised the gun as a reflex before he realized it was only a mirror. He stepped forward, and the image of himself grew larger. A large window over the home’s foyer allowed the moonlight to illuminate his form, but he had to lean his seven-foot frame down in order to look into his own eyes.

But were they his eyes or were they Kruger’s?

He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t differentiate the line between Idris, the husband and father, and Kruger, the professional killer and mercenary who was spoke of in certain circles as a phantom. He had only allowed Kruger to be a mere shadow, a predator, a weapon, a tool used to print money for Idris. But now he couldn’t decide if Kruger had taken over or lost all control.

And then he was back in the squatter camp, going from house to house. He saw his own hands bringing down the blade over and over, chopping off pieces of what had once been people so poor they slept in the dirt. But in his ears, he didn’t hear the ripping and breaking of sinew and bone. He heard his mother’s screams and the growls of the lions.

Suddenly aware of his surroundings, he stood back up to full height and checked his watch. Cursing himself, he double-checked his weapons out of pure habit. He had succumbed to another fugue and had apparently been staring into the mirror for a full five minutes.

On most of his missions such a lapse would have resulted in his death. He was lucky that this particular target was sleeping peacefully and had no one to watch over him. But Kruger knew that luck only held out so long. It only took one mistake, one second of lost focus. He needed to get out of the game. And he needed to do it quickly or he wouldn’t have to worry about whether he was truly Idris or Kruger, because they would both be dead.

He opened the bedroom door and crept inside. Fred Little slept on his back and was snoring like a bear. The thin sheet had been kicked away and only covered a portion of Fred’s torso. He wore nothing but a white T-shirt and checkered boxer shorts. This routine had been verified on three previous nights using a remote-controlled drone to peer into Fred’s bedroom window.

Kruger gently moved the sheet aside and pulled up on the leg of Fred’s boxer shorts. Then he retrieved the Q-tip from the tube and swabbed the injection site. The local anesthetic would keep Fred from feeling the penetration of the needle. He waited a moment to be sure the numbing effect had taken hold, and then he injected the succinylcholine into the middle third of Fred’s upper thigh, straight into vastus lateralis muscle.

He waited a few moments for the drug to spread through his target’s system. As he waited, he watched Fred sleep. Kruger knew from his research that Fred was the youngest of three boys born to a wealthy farming family in rural Kentucky. His inherited money allowed Fred to attend college at MIT and study robotics, but to Kruger’s eyes, Fred still looked like he belonged in the backwoods, hunting and fishing, with his auburn brush pile mustache and long sideburns cut into a point in the middle of his cheeks. But Kruger definitely wasn’t judging the man. He—or rather his alter ego, Idris Madeira—had been born in a small village in Mozambique and felt more at home on the savannah than in a jungle of concrete.

After a sufficient amount of time had passed, Kruger flipped on a lamp beside the bed. When that didn’t rouse his slumbering target, he slapped Fred across the face.

The man opened his eyes, breathing heavy and trying to clear the haze of sleep. Fred tried to move but found himself paralyzed.

“Don’t struggle, my friend,” Kruger said. “I’ve injected you with a paralytic that still allows you to feel pain. The downside is that it will also relax the muscles that allow you to breathe. If you struggle too much or exert yourself, you’ll die from asphyxiation.”

Probably still groggy from sleep and hoping this was all a dream, Fred said, “What do you want? Take whatever you need.”

“I was going to do that anyway, but it’s very polite of you to offer consent.”

“What’s this about?”

“I need some information.”

“Information about what? I don’t know anything important.”

“Make no mistake, my friend. I know exactly who you are, what you do, and who you work for. I need your access code, Mr. Little.”

“What? I don’t—”

“All you need to understand in this moment is that I have all the power, and you have none. The drug I have given you will last long enough for me to inflict all manner of pain upon your body. You will not even be able to move or resist, and the more you fight, the greater the odds of suffocation. You can save us both from such unpleasantness. Give me the code.”

“My code wouldn’t let you into any of the vaults or boxes. Even if you could …”

“Shhh. I don’t need you to tell me reasons why I can’t do something. I’ve learned one lesson over and over again throughout my life: the only thing stopping any of us from doing and having what we want is fear. And if you’re not afraid, then anything is possible. You see, Mr. Little, there is much in this world that still frightens me. There are monsters much worse than me out there. However, I am likely the most frightening man you’ve ever met. You possess what I require, and I fully intend to employ every method of torture necessary to extract all that I need from you. And trust me, I am well-versed in such things.”

Kruger laid a massive left hand on Fred’s...