The Cost of Killing

PROLOGUE

WHEN A CERTAIN KIND of person reaches a level of wealth that it seems limitless, some will allow their minds to turn to other things that are difficult to obtain. Power often becomes their next challenge to conquer. Failure to achieve power through honest attempts does not deter some who would do this, but instead, drives them to deeper, darker, more nefarious lengths to find and possess this elusive goal of power.

Sometimes they endeavor alone, other times they seek those with similar agendas. Loyalty is not a concept they embody; hidden agendas and back-stabbing are the norm in this world, with each of them out for their own best interests. Wars have been fought simply at the behest of those with the funding and the desire to have others distracted from their shady dealings and their plans of dominance.

While many have no concerns for their actions, the worry they should have now is the retribution coming from those they have wronged and not prepared for…

THE ODOR of antiseptic cleaner mixed with a bit of perspiration filled the air, the lights were low except for a bright light that shone down on him. Pictures of strange drawings filled the walls wherever his eyes wandered. He tried to lay perfectly still. The needle jumped up and down, perforating his skin with every stroke. Tiny droplets of blood and ink would occasionally push to the surface and be wiped away by a small clean cloth. The artist pushed forward with no attention paid to the small amount of blood. It was normal.

Occasionally, she would ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, keep going,” he replied, as the pain made him wince occasionally. He thought of his promise, “I won’t stop,” he muttered under his breath.

The artist glanced at the drawing that was sitting to the side of the skin that was her canvas. The background of a Celtic circle was nearly complete. Other shapes had also been outlined on her client’s arm. The needle would soon begin to puncture those lines and push ink into the skin as well. Only a temporary reprieve from the constant feeling of being stung by a thousand small bees came when the artist stopped to clean the needle or change colors.

Derrick endured the pain, convinced this was the first small step in his obligation to seek justice for Shannon, a penance he must pay for surviving the incident that killed her. The outline showed a shamrock positioned on the Celtic circle; a dagger pushed through a skull was layered on top of the shamrock. Blood dripped from the end of the knife as it protruded from the skull. Two small roses filled the skull’s eye sockets and gave the appearance of glowing red eyes. Below the graphic tattoo was a Latin inscription: donec debitum solvit. Till the debt is paid.

The artist continued several hours more, till the image was complete. She wiped away the excess ink and blood and then applied a protective ointment and wrapped the tattoo in plastic.

“Keep that on till at least tomorrow. Don’t scratch it, and keep applying that ointment when you remove the plastic,” she advised in an almost motherly tone.

Derrick paid his bill and left a sizable tip to show his gratitude for the amazing work, then he left with the first tattoo he had ever gotten. This was for Shannon, a promise that he wouldn’t stop until those responsible were dead or brought to justice. He preferred dead.

THE SINGLE-STORY CLAY and sand structure baked in the sun all day, now it released that stored energy into the cantina like the inside of an oven. Anyone seeking reprieve from the evening heat had come to the wrong location. A layer of sand covered the floorboards inside, as a testament to the desert-like environment that surrounded the cantina. Sweat glistened on the skin of the patrons, slightly matted by a thin dust that hung in the air like smoke. Two men sat tucked into a back corner of the little cantina. They were fidgeting in their chairs and drawing figures in the dust on the table to cover up their anxiety over this meeting. They glanced around the room, eyes darting rapidly from one person to the next, afraid they might be recognized and reported to the government.

While their goals were noble for the people of this land, they were treasonous to the current government. They sat waiting for a meeting that believed could change not only their lives, but the course of their country. A singer performing a familiar tune, would help provide cover for their anticipated conversation. He was late, and they were beginning to grow concerned not only for his tardiness but for their safety. The first man gazed around the cantina; his clothes were now evidently wet from his perspiration, he continued to fidget in his seat and had started writing swear words in the dust on the table.

“We need to get out of here, he’s not gonna show,” his voice trembled as he spoke. His partner’s face was expressionless, just staring at the door, summoning the will to endure the risk a bit longer.

“I am afraid as well my friend, but we must remain exposed for just a little longer. Our country is depending on us,” he responded to his compatriot.

The mere suggestion that they were conspiring to revolt could have them beheaded in front of their families and their bodies placed on poles in front of the central government building, to serve as a blatant deterrent to others who might be considering similar crimes.

They waited another half hour before they decided it was time to leave.

One of them raised his hand to attract the attention of a server walking by. “Waitress, our check please,” he asked quietly.

While they were waiting for the waitress to return, an extremely tall man ducked in through the hanging beads that passed as the inner door to the establishment. He slowly gazed around the room and upon seeing the two men standing over in the corner, he quickly moved toward them, his boots scuffing through the thin layer of sand. He held out his hand to the men, neither reciprocated. “That’s okay, I know I’m late. I do bring the benefits you’ve been wanting though,” he said with a smile and the bravado of a used car salesman.

After waiving off the server who was returning, the men returned to their seats joined by their guest.

The tall man spoke softly. “You’ve read the proposal from your benefactor, by accepting this money you are agreeing to work within the timeline we’ve laid out, and that you’ll coordinate your attacks to maximize the benefits to your financier as well.” The two men looked nervously at each other, they understood that their path to revolt was being financed to allow their benefactor to accomplish things that he needed to be hidden from the public, and that their war for freedom would likely be just a distraction to the rest of the world.

The two men stood up and this time they shook hands with the tall man—for them the meeting went well. The two turned and left quietly from the cantina, doing their best to go unnoticed. Outside as the tall man promised, the two men found two large duffel bags. They grabbed the bags of untraceable funding and disappeared into the city.

THE TALL MAN exited and found himself brushing against the bodies of people crowded into the area outside the cantina. It was dusk and the lighting was minimal at best. He wasn’t worried about crime though; he was only worried about becoming lost. He needed to get to his next meeting.

Barry Klinger was known as a facilitator and for the right price, he could arrange almost anything. In this case, his fee was higher than normal. He had worked for this client for a long time and even considered him a friend, but this time he was arranging a war, one that would serve mostly as a distraction from his client’s political manipulations.

Barry headed directly to his next meeting with The Royal General of Milekistan, a title that the leader bestowed on himself after a military coup seven years ago. Since then, the General had been living like a king at his country’s expense. Barry’s driver navigated the car up one of the few paved roads in the country to a beautiful sprawling estate. The landscape was manicured and watered by sprinklers even as the people in this country struggled for fresh drinking water. This did not escape Barry’s notice as they drove closer to the meeting; he hated himself for the next part he had to do.

The residence resembled a small hotel or a castle. Stone walls and large glass windows were the things that stood out at first, but the more one looked, other oddities emerged, things that were out of place in this country. Ivy grew up the walls, small red flowers blooming from in the ivy. It truly was a beautiful sight. The entire estate was like a Hollywood set, fabricated to present a specific impression.

During the ride, he considered how he was playing both sides against each other. He chose not to dwell on the moral implications, as it was causing his stomach to hurt. His task was to orchestrate a bloody conflict that would enthrall the media and consume the public’s attention. When he arrived, he was escorted inside to the General’s office. Ornate sculptures from around the world sat on pedestals, fine art hung on the walls between the windows, and a large bookshelf behind the desk looked as though it held a thousand books. As he was ushered into the private study, a short thin man stood up from behind the desk.

Barry felt the hairs raise on his neck, a response much like a dog’s when it senses danger. He took a deep breath and almost gagged; the air was mixed with a sweet smell of some flower and the sour scent of curry and body odor that emanated from the General himself.

“Royal General, thank you for meeting with me,” Barry forced out with a smile.

Barry reached out and shook the little hand that belonged to such a diminutive man, as if they were buddies reunited. He was amused at how small this overbearing man really was.

As he shook hands, the Royal General watched as his hand disappeared completely in the grasp of his visitor. Intimidated, he rapidly snatched it away. He motioned for Barry to sit in a chair positioned in front of the large ornate desk. Barry chuckled to himself as he realized that the General’s desk was raised to give him the appearance of having more stature over his guests.

“You said you can help me with the threat against my power,” the General stated as a question more than a statement.

Visions of choking this little man till his head exploded were running through Barry’s mind. He looked around the room as he talked, afraid too much eye contact would betray his hateful feelings toward the General.

“Yes sir, I can. I have some information I am sure will be of great value to you,” Barry reassured him while appearing to look around and admire the art.

The General stared at him as if sizing him up for a suit. Looking him up and down and ultimately trying to gaze directly into Barry’s eyes. Barry met the gaze only briefly.

“I suppose you should give me this information then, Mr. Klinger,” the General said with a snide growl in his tone indicating this was a precursor to a threat.

“Oh, Mr. General I plan on it, however, I need a small gesture from you first,” Barry said, meeting the General’s tone with one of equal authority.

The General’s eyes flashed with anger. “How much do you want?” Barry quickly reframed his statement. “General, I am not looking for money, only a simple assurance from you on how you will use the information.”

The General continued to stare as if he was looking past Barry and blurted out, “You will not dictate how I will use this information in protecting myself and my position!”

His voice had risen nearly to the point of cracking while he was responding. Barry thought quickly. He was losing his grip on this conversation. The General was known for his quick and exceedingly violent temper.

“General, I promise you may use the information as you see fit, my client only asks that your actions coincide with a timeline that benefits him as well. After all, he has spent a considerable amount of money to uncover this information,” Barry responded in a diminutive tone.

As quickly as he became aggressive, the General deflated. He seemed to be content with Barry’s request and reasoning. “Okay let’s have it,” he asked.

Barry laid out the timeline for the General, who agreed to it in writing, pending his validation of the information. The meeting finished, Barry wiped his brow as he exited, relieved to be able to escape the presence of such a dangerously insecure man, secretly hoping the rebels would destroy him. As he rode down the long-paved drive on the way out, he thought about his client and the deal he just secured. He will be happy.

TWO DAYS LATER, Barry was waiting for his next meeting. There was a hacker his client had asked him to locate and solicit to help with his plan. Barry had a bit of trouble locating this man, because this person was intentionally trying to hide. Now that Barry had found him and arranged a meeting, he was excited to finally put a face to this man who made his job so exceedingly difficult. The hacker was dressed like anyone who would be in the park. He wore a hat pulled low over his dark sunglasses, no electronic devices at all, and an oversized hoodie over sweatpants and sneakers.

Barry sized him up, using his displayed caution as a baseline, it made Barry look over his shoulder as well. This guy was obviously worried about being followed or found. They sat on a bench in the public park. Kids and dogs ran around freely, some of them with their parents or guardians watching from close by. The cheerful noise of playing children or the occasional bark of an impatient dog provided acoustical cover for their conversation.

“How did you find me?” the hacker half whispered, half hissed.

Barry studied him a second longer. “You were not an easy person to find.”

The hacker stared coldly back at him and responded quietly, “I make myself hard to find. The fact that you found me, means I must have missed something. Make this fast. What do you need?”

Barry took a minute to relay a greeting from his client. “George Avail says hello, and he needs your assistance.”

He noticed the hacker’s demeanor relax slightly, but not completely.

Barry continued talking, hoping the hacker was relaxing a bit, “You are needed to hack into these specific locations,” he finished with as he handed over an envelope.

The hacker reviewed the contents of the envelope, mumbling to himself as he read.

Barry stared at him. “Are you sure you understand all the instructions laid out in there?” he questioned, referencing the letter.

“I’m good, this is a complex hack, but I can do it. I will need to assemble a team to get it done,” the hacker responded.

Barry understood the implications and handed over a duffle bag full of cash.

“This should get you going, there will be more when you acquire the content as directed.”

The hacker grabbed the bag, and abruptly stood up and said, “I’ll be in touch, don’t look for me again. Only call me on this.” He handed Barry a card with the number to his encrypted burner phone.

A group of teens passed by shouting at each other and being generally rowdy. Barry looked over at them—when he looked back, the hacker had disappeared into the park. He smiled; he considered Tinker just an ordinary person, no military or spy training. It was impressive to him that someone like this could be so effectively elusive. “Well done.”