Everything I Die For Read online

  A chuckle. “If you believe that is true, then I feel…sorry for you.”

  Prosser tilted his head sideways. “Why is that?”

  “But not just for you, but for every man and woman who works for you and with you.” He sent another icy stare Prosser’s way. “And I especially feel sorry for your family—your wife and your children. You…possess a family, do you not?”

  Prosser leaned back in his chair and tried covering his wedding band under his fingers. Taking his time, he slid it over a swollen knuckle, removing it from his ring finger as his worry began to manifest. “Okay, enough of that. No one has threatened you, particularly me. So there’s no need to threaten me.”

  “It was not a threat.”

  Prosser studied him while attempting to shroud the worry in his expression. “Who are you?”

  The suspect remained reticent.

  “Okay, then exactly who do you work for?”

  “Who do I work for?” the Slav repeated, smirking. “A very powerful man.”

  Prosser tried slipping his wedding band into a pocket, short of being noticed. “How powerful? More powerful than, say, the United States fucking government?”

  The Eastern European chuckled heartily. “Surely you joke.” He chuckled again. “The entity you reference—the one you also evidently represent—does not even exist within a remotely corresponding dimension.”

  Prosser was growing immensely curious. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “It is not worth the effort to explain.” He paused a moment. “But you should let me go now, before my employer finds out where I am…and conveys his wrath upon you. And everyone else you know…and love.”

  Prosser struggled to posture himself; it had been years since he’d performed an interrogation. In hindsight, choosing to terminate his celibacy by way of this latter-day inaugural might’ve been a slipup on his part. “You know something…I think you’re bluffing. Your words are coming far too easily for someone in your position. You don’t know who I am, and you don’t know where I’ve taken you. I could be anyone…a dignitary, military contractor, operator, or I could be the director of the US National Clandestine Service.” He paused. “I might even be an assassin—someone waiting in line, itching for the opportunity to kill you. And we could be anywhere in the world, completely off the radar. Point is, you don’t know who your friends are, sport.”

  A chuckle as the Slavic man squared off with Prosser. “And you truly believe this is so? That I am bluffing?”

  “I know it.”

  The man nodded. “Yet your appearance and tone of voice betray you,” he said. “Allow me then to say what I believe and what I know.” A pause. “You are no assassin. Your mannerisms, expressions, and the terminology you utilize in conversation all serve as clues of this. And let’s be honest—you are no dignitary; you are not a man of any particular power or authority. You are a simpleton, a seeker of information. I had you pegged for American intelligence the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  One of Prosser’s brows elevated. “That obvious, huh?”

  The suspect chuckled again. “One look around this pathetic interrogation chamber merely serves as confirmation. You are not a police officer or military, that much is obvious. Your hair is well-groomed, your fingernails are dirty, but the fingers themselves lack callouses, and your face is recently shaven. I can detect the odor of freshly applied antiperspirant. You are dressed casually, but do not appear pleased to be. You probably wear a suit most days and chose not to today to facilitate this role you have been improvising. You…are an actor—a performer. You are most definitely not a competitor.”

  “Say what you want, nothing’ll change our roles as they stand unless you start cooperating.” Prosser tapped the table using the uncalloused tip of his index finger. “As of this moment, I’m the interrogator and you’re the subject—the respondent. And trust me, we have near-infinite methods at our disposal that I can and will use to get what I want out of you.”

  “All of which will have negligible effects at best,” the man said. “Throughout my life, I have endured more torment than your domesticated brain could ever process.”

  Prosser nodded his head. The time had come to switch tactics, the full-frontal assault he’d preplanned wasn’t having the desired effect. “Here’s a question straight out of my domesticated brain. How exactly do you know Quinn Barrett?”

  The man didn’t respond. The cold stare he’d been sending Prosser returned. His blueish eyes might as well have iced over.

  “You don’t have to answer. But I think there stands a good chance he knows you. When I found you, he’d just taken you out and was rifling through your pockets. My guess is, if I hadn’t happened upon you when I did, he would’ve finished the job. And you and I wouldn’t be enjoying each other’s company.”

  “Perhaps he should have finished the job.”

  “Perhaps,” Prosser hummed. “So, I’m going to keep going with this…stop me or fill in the blanks, add to it whenever you like. Quinn Aiden Barrett, the dissenting thug who knocked your lights out, is an ex-United States Marine Corps MARSOC sharpshooter and a former CIA operative turned private-sector contract killer, one of the most effective, highly skilled and highly sought-after on the planet. His better half is formerly Natalia Marie Schuster. She is also a freelance assassin, previously under contract with the Russian mob, a group she managed to excommunicate herself from yet remain alive and breathing. Something very few have been able to do.”

  Prosser pressed a red button mounted to the underside of the table. After a buzz, the door opened behind him and two agents in suits entered. “I’ll take an espresso. Some of that Guatemalan shit preferably,” he said, then gestured across the table. “Anything for you?”

  The suspect shook his head.

  “Suit yourself.” Prosser sent the men on their way and continued. “A DC cop found a body not far from where we found you. His shoulder was dislocated and his neck was broken…in three places. Suffice it to say, he wasn’t breathing. A Makarov pistol was found lying next to him, and the ground was littered with unfired nine-by-eighteen millimeter rounds in steel casings. The pistol had been fieldstripped.”

  The Slavic man’s expression softened, and he regarded Prosser, attempting to determine his level of candor.

  Prosser caught his gaze. “I know, hard to imagine, right? I mean, who unloads his magazines and fieldstrips his sidearm prior to…breaking his own neck in three places and dying?” he jested. “Another unfortunate incident occurred at the Mayflower Hotel not long after. Seems another group—a team of four men, to be precise—tried to take out Quinn and wife in their club-level penthouse suite. All four were unsuccessful. To emphasize, very unsuccessful.”

  The man’s cold stare transformed into a squint. “What are you saying? They are all dead? These two bandits killed them all?”

  “Infer whatever you wish. But there’s a good chance that you…might be the only one of your kind left. And you can thank me for that.” Prosser shuffled in his seat. “Now, I’m guessing you’re either a member of or somehow related to the deceased we uncovered near the Moby Dicks House of Kabob’s recycle bin, the hit squad at the Mayflower, or both. Any chance you want to confirm any of this? You could start by telling me who you are. Or do I need to take this interview to the next level?”

  The man studied Prosser a moment, then folded his arms. “Why is it you want to know so much about me, my employer, and this…Quinn Barrett person? Do you seek him?”

  Prosser wondered if he’d been going about this the wrong way all along. “Okay, I’m going to go out on a limb here and throw you a bone. I am seeking him. He’s what we most commonly refer to as a person of particular interest.”

  “And what of his wife?”

  “What of her?”

  “Does she…interest you just as particularly? Or does she interest your agency?”

  “Where one goes, so does the other,” Prosser responded. “At one time, she wasn’t
even a blip on the company radar. Just so happens that recently she’s become one.”

  The man nodded.

  Prosser grew inquisitive. “Why do you ask?”

  The man across from the agent huffed loudly. “It is possible that we share a common interest.”

  “Meaning…”

  “Meaning we share a common interest,” the Slavic man said flatly.

  “So that’s why you’re here.” Prosser grinned, now putting things together. “You and the others—the ones who unfortunately didn’t make it, I’m sorry to say…were following them, weren’t they?” He chuckled. “Well, well, well. Two of the world’s most notorious manhunters have somehow become the hunted. Now that’s what I call a contract. What did they do to have a kill order put out on them? Must’ve been something rather…bad.”

  The suspect went expressionless. After a moment, he asked, “I think you have your answers. Now, what is it you want from me?”

  Prosser pushed out his lower lip. “Nothing, really. Well, it’s not totally nothing…it’s something, just not something I usually offer.” A pause. “But I’m in a charitable mood today. I’m thinking we might be able to help each other.”

  “Help?”

  “That’s right. As in, join forces.” Prosser paused. “We’re looking for the same two people, for assorted reasons, obviously. Your employer wants them dead. I just want them questioned and imprisoned or perhaps deported—tossed out of the country. We both want the same thing, and oddly enough, the endgame your employer has chosen for them doesn’t exactly contradict mine.”

  “What is this you are proposing? That we work for you? For the fucking CIA?”

  “No. No, not at all.” Prosser rubbed his nose. “Not work for, work together, to supplement one another’s interests. To achieve a common goal. Become allies—albeit temporary ones, mind you.”

  The man nodded. “Intriguing. But what you propose would not be for me to decide.”

  “Right,” said Prosser. “It would be a decision only your…very dangerous employer could make. Yes?”

  “Correct.”

  “Great. So, for your next feat, put me in contact with him. If he and I can reach an agreement, I’ll make arrangements for your release complete with transportation—anywhere you want to go in the city, with a few exceptions.” Prosser stood and neared the door. “I’m going to find out where those two jokers went with my coffee. Let us know if we can get you anything, mister…I’m sorry, you never told me your name.”

  “Marko. You may call me Marko.”

  “Right. Marko. Can I get you anything?”

  Marko rubbed his chin and rolled his lips about, then leaned over the table. “A phone.”

  Four

  Washington, DC

  Nihayat al’ayam plus 1 day, 8 hours

  Jonathon allowed his eyes to drift to the speedometer. There wasn’t much in terms of traffic on the highway, he’d been blowing by what little there was, and until now, the likelihood of exceeding the speed limit hadn’t even occurred to him.

  The red needle was aligned midway between those marked one hundred ten and one hundred twenty—miles per hour. His initial notion was to let off the accelerator and allow the Volkswagen’s two-and-a-half-liter turbocharged engine’s torque to decelerate the vehicle. But after taking a good look around, including a particularly lengthy one through the rearview mirror, he concluded it wouldn’t be necessary.

  Though he hadn’t consciously made the decision to speed, Jonathon assumed he might’ve done so subconsciously or, his self-awareness being what it was at the moment, unconsciously. Even when beyond the point of intoxication, which was most times, he knew that traveling at inordinately high speeds such as these made it straightforward to discern if being tailed. And as near as he could tell, at least for the moment, he wasn’t. So he maintained his current forward velocity until the point of crossing over the Potomac River and entering the District of Columbia.

  Jonathon hadn’t planned on making this trip today, and he wouldn’t have had his most recent chat with a close friend not reminded him of a few foremost particulars in need of attention. As far as he was concerned at this juncture in his life, he was done with the city—Washington, DC, and all other metropolitan areas, for that matter—for the foreseeable future, if not indefinitely. What had recently been brought to light concerning the attacks ISIS was in the process of executing, and especially those that hadn’t yet been unleashed, served as a warning for him to steer clear of highly populated areas for the rest of his life. Though, he’d surmised those areas wouldn’t remain that way—that is, highly populated, for much longer.

  The honorarium he’d received for his services after taking part in Quinn and Natalia’s latest operation would serve to pad his bank account enough for Jon to seek retirement, though doing so would necessitate relocation—somewhere outside United States borders, he fancied.

  “I think I remember hearing Belize is nice this time of year,” he deliberated aloud. “Or was it Panama? Hell, why bother stopping there, Jon? South America is just a hop, skip and a jump from there, and…it is still America, kind of. I mean, Venezuela by and large is pretty much fucked, and gringos are still getting their necks stretched from bridges in neighboring Colombia and Brazil. Buuut,” he drew out the conjunction, “the overabundance of uber-hot Latina booty princesses might be cause to overlook those factors less desirable.”

  After making a left onto Sixth Street and meandering along for several more blocks, Jonathon pulled into an alley behind a grungy, four-story apartment building in the middle of Chinatown and shut off the engine. He made his way to the rear of the vehicle and opened the hatch, removing a security level five crosscut document shredder. He wrapped the cord around it, removed it and secured the hatch, then strode to the building, where a dimly backlit security keypad mounted beside the rear door awaited. After thumbing in the appropriate entry code, he moved into the hallway and kicked the door closed behind him.

  The apartment in Chinatown was one of the last remaining domiciles Jonathon had procured in the city, and though he hadn’t actually lived there for some time, he was aware that some of his personal effects remained there, along with a handful of select professional ones. Some of the professional ones were dossiers and personnel files he’d appropriated during his stint at the agency. Most contained information that Jonathon had no intention of letting become public, and with his friends wishing to go permanently dark and seek retirement, much in the same way he did, it was paramount that any and all confidential files he had on them be destroyed—add to that, anything he might have on himself as well.

  Jonathon’s first impulse had been to torch the whole goddamned building. He’d even used that phrase verbatim to describe the envisioned act to himself while doing his best to rationalize it to himself. He’d torched buildings before or, rather, had them torched before as a stopgap, though granted, never a building he’d owned or rented. The final results had always been appropriate, however. Complete maximum destruction of any and all sensitive and classified evidence.

  He’d even considered having the building razed or, for shits and giggles, systematically demolished with explosives. After all, who would notice? Especially after these attacks had initiated. Law enforcement, federal investigators and the like would most likely pass it off as another terrorist incident directly or indirectly related to those already in progress. And the building owner, depending on the terms of his policy, might even luck out and receive a surprise insurance check out of the deal in the mail. Jon would be doing all parties involved a service.

  He soon parted with both notions, having reached the conclusion that a Department of Defense–approved shredder was all that was needed. Using this in substitute of fire, explosives, or heavy equipment would be far less ostentatious and a lot more boring. But it would get the job done, short of illumining a ‘former spook destroying classified evidence’ beam into the sky overhead like a goddamn Bat-Signal.

  Jonatho
n was reminded that the apartment not only contained sensitive items in need of disintegration, but other items lacking that requirement. Some of those items possessed a particular sentimental value to him, like a fully stocked, handcrafted Brazilian cherry hardwood cabinet of highly prized wines and spirits. And he wasn’t about to let those treasures go to waste now that the end of the fucking world was practically nigh.

  Jonathon entered the apartment, set the shredder down near an outlet, plugged it in, and began hastily gathering his things. He placed his personal effects into boxes and took them one at a time to the truck to load them up. After, he scoured the space and piled all the sensitive documents he’d gathered into a salvaged Amazon Prime box hand-labeled ‘wrapping paper and other shit’ and began the shredding process.

  While the shredder chewed up and spit out everything Jonathon guided into its jaws, he made several trips to his prized cabinet of liquor and began judiciously wrapping each bottle in layers of newspaper. Thinking the use of paper might not be enough protection for them, he managed to locate some bubble wrap along with a pile of random packing material from a closet and preceded to coat each bottle with another safeguard, finalizing the task with either packing tape or duct tape, whatever he could find. Then, after cradling and saying a few sweet nothings to each one, he placed the bottles into boxes with meticulous care and taped them shut.

  After hauling away all he intended to take with him before abandoning the dwelling forever, Jonathon returned one final time to revisit his cupboards. He found most of them empty, save one.

  Jon beamed at the sight of a half-empty—no, half-full bottle of Tito’s—one he’d acquired by means of a modestly hostile takeover during a game of thieves’ Christmas with his coworkers a few seasons ago.

  He sighed and dragged over a chipped coffee mug with his index finger, used the same finger to squeegee the dust out, then filled it midway and brought it to his lips. “Here’s to breakfast. And to the sad, lonely remnants of an unexceptional life on its way to becoming sadder and lonelier.” Jonathon harrumphed, bearing in mind the boatload of cash he’d recently acquired. “Though, the recently annexed pot of gold might brighten things a bit. That reminds me, might be prudent to hit up an ATM soon.”