Immortal Fear - 1

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       We think of the modern world as this vast interconnected place, where people can trade information freely and spread knowledge and science to the four corners of the world. And see, in the same breath I talk about the spread of knowledge I describe the world as having corners.  Technology may make learning easier, sure you can just use Google to figure out what the current teen-aged heart throb likes to eat, or even pick up a great recipe for dinner.  That’s all harmless.  You could pick that stuff up from a sewing circle, the internet is an enormous redundancy for that triviality.

Real information - information people want, information people complain about society not using the internet for is still very secretive.  Information is dangerous and powerful. It can make you a king just as easily as it can make you dead.  Manipulation of information is the same as manipulating people because let’s face it, people are stupid enough to believe anything, except their own gullibility.  This abundance of information inevitably creates shadows.

I lurk in those shadows.

Not like Batman – capes are a bit dramatic for my taste.

The deep web; the places your search engine can’t take you.  These shadows exist because of good upstanding people like you trying to make the world a better place.  Following the proper channels, advocating legislation.  Problem is, just because something’s illegal doesn’t mean people don’t want it anymore. You can blame capitalism but it’s simply human nature. 

I exist to get things done.

Unsettling things.  Anonymously.

My name is Silas Bishop, though no one has called me that in many years.  Bounties hunted.  Secrets gathered. Problem solved. I’d put that on a business card if I were legitimate, but when existing outside of the law is your profession you tended to stay away from giving people your real name.  It’s not like I pay taxes or anything: I’m a ghost.  No one simply stumbles upon me and my services.  I’m the guy you have to be looking for.  Maybe you know a guy who knows a guy, then that guy knows another guy.  Eventually you’d find your way to me, though no one you’ve talked to knows anything about me and neither would you. 

I found myself most recently in San Diego. It had been a lifetime since I'd last been in the city but homecomings always brought a fit of nostalgia.  I’d been contracted to kill a man, David Philips.  He and his wife lived up in La Jolla. The place was big. He'd made his fortune investing in shipping. The guy was a household name down by the docks. He greased all the right palms, had all the right connections and philandered with the biggest billionaires in town. His brand, Infinity shipping, was plastered on crates in every ship in the dock as well as nearly every train that left the station.

David’s wife, Francesca, walked around the house every day in virgin white – which still makes me laugh because every Thursday the pool boy had her bent over on the patio barking like a seal.

Rich people, right? 

A trophy wife to the tee.  She didn’t need to work so she collected charities to sponsor. I’d picked up a few of the benefit pamphlets for her most recent events – socialites have the most bizarre sense of charity.  Most recently she held a benefit to raise money for a foundation called “Soon to be home,” a charity that helped the homeless population in San Diego.  Instead of building a food kitchen or a shelter, this organization engraves hopeful messages on the back of old keys, “Recycling them to the homeless as an inspirational memento, commemorating their journey home.” This was an actual quote from their website. She gave ten thousand dollars at this benefit.

She threw his money away at every opportunity. 

Philips helped the homeless in his own way; kidnapping and selling them into slavery.

He obviously knew how to get a little more bang for his buck.

Men like Philips attracted their share of enemies even without his involvement in black market affairs; the corporate world held its own dangers. I like to know who I'm getting into business with when I take a contract so I traced the IP address of the correspondence and learned it came from the Philips’ own address.  The neglected wife was ready for her payout. Murder is always cheaper than divorce in the higher tax brackets.  
I like to know who I'm working with, but I always remain anonymous: rule number one. I'm sure she wanted to remain anonymous herself, but people are never as clever as they think: rule number two.  She did manage to set up a single proxy – I’m sure she was very proud of herself.

The two of them slept in different rooms.  It had an odd sense of romance to it.  Husband supporting his family and criminal underworld.  His lovely wife trapped in an ivory tower scouring the internet for a man to kill him.

I’m not one to judge – I’m a professional. 

I’d been taking my time.  I found the house quickly and begun tracking their schedule.  Like most married households this one’s routine was like clockwork.  I lay prone on the roof of a neighbor’s house looking into the back of the Philips home.  The back porch looked out towards the ocean and the windows were floor to ceiling all the way across.  They say people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones, then again if you could afford a glass house you could likely afford people to throw them for you.  It definitely wasn’t a prime space for privacy. I glanced down to check my watch and time sheet: 8:15, there would be a blow out any minute.

The coastal city shown like a fire next to the darkness of the ocean as David Philips emerged from the house.  He had taken off his perfectly tailored suit jacket and tie to reveal a man with an athletic build rolling up his sleeves.  It was a stark contrast to his usual meticulously crafted look.  Francesca wasn’t far behind him.  He’d gotten home at eight o’clock, as usual, and she’d immediately laid into him.  The things she bullied him over were odd considering he’d be dead later this evening.  Couldn’t she let the man have one night of peace?  She was feisty though.  I’d have to bang her before I left town. She wouldn’t know I was the man that she’d just paid quarter of a million dollars to kill her husband, but I would.  That always made it hotter.

The neighbor’s roof was a perfect roost; I laid at its lipped edge observing the fight through binoculars.  Had I brought my rifle he would be an easy target.  I was paid to do things discreetly though, not implicate my theoretical employer in the murder.  Things were heating up, it looked like tonight would finally be the night.  When their fights were especially bad, he would get in his Maserati and drive into Mexico.  Usually a trip into Tijuana at night wasn’t the brightest idea for an affluent white man but running in the sort of circles that Philips did, I’m sure it meant a good place to blow off steam doing things that weren’t entirely legal in the States.

She finally turned to face him. I could see the hatred in her eyes. His casual stance showed what little respect he had for the woman who’d planned to kill him. Some words were exchanged that I couldn’t make out. I’d decided not to bring my sonic equipment tonight as I’d already devised a plan, I was merely waiting to execute it.  She pulled back her arms, winding up to push him into the infinity pool; casually, hands still in his pants pockets, he sidestepped the blow with a raised foot, tripping her and with a splash she fell into the drink.

His laughter billowed forth, louder than the splash, louder than her flailing limbs splashing the water, louder than her furious screams.

“I’ll kill you!” she wailed, beginning to cry.

He laughed even harder.  This man had complete power over her.

Controlling your own life wasn’t enough, you must control the lives of those around you.  The men who convinced other men that they knew what was best for them.  Seeking power for power’s sake.
Guys like Philips were the reason I got into contract killing in the first place. It was going to be really satisfying to blow his brains out.

He walked back into the house not sparing his wife a second glance.

I slowly rose from my perch heading for the towering palm tree I had climbed to get to the roof.  I moved cautiously even knowing that no one was inside. I’d chosen this place because it was a summer home; it would be empty until April or May.  I ran out of the side gate and began ascending the hill on foot.  My bike was parked around the bend as to not raise suspicion when I started it and chased after Philips.

It took him one hundred and eighty-five seconds to get to his car.  The throaty growl of his Maserati erupted from behind me as I rounded the corner to jump on my bike. I checked my side arm, a .50 caliber Desert Eagle in my shoulder holster; for safety’s sake I should probably have stowed it in the side saddle but there was a comfort in having it with me. The Maserati pulled out of the garage heading down the hill just as I started my Ducati. Giving him a comfortable lead, I slowly made my way down the hill after him.

The hills of La Jolla are a mess of stream-like roads that crisscross all the way down to the main avenue.  I sped down past the Philips’ house and took a different street that would take me just ahead of Philips’ path, you know, assuming I didn’t obey traffic signs.  I felt like I was flying down the hillside.  The Italians really knew how to make a fine piece of machinery.  I made sure to rev my engine as I came to each crossing, announcing my plan to continue on uninterrupted – no one made a complaint.  I came to a stop at Prospect Street just in time to see Philips’ Maserati drive by.  I pulled out slowly after him.

You don’t want someone to know you’re following them. It defeats the purpose.  It’s a surprise attack.  That’s why I was dressed in black from my helmet down to my boots.  It wasn’t just to be inconspicuous, it was also sexy as hell. Just like the black of my bike. I was as the shadow behind the loan head light.  Come to think of it, maybe the Batman reference was appropriate.

I wanted to make sure I kept my distance.  The last thing I needed for Philips to catch wind of me and run off, sail in the wind.  I made sure to keep a couple of cars between us at all times while still keeping a comfortable eye on him.  I knew where he was going, but the last thing I needed was to have him change his plans last minute, loosing this opportunity.  Soon we approached the I-5 south; from here it would be a straight shot to Mexico.

This was what I lived for.  Stalking my prey; the thrill of the hunt. I may not have found what I was looking for when I joined the SEALs but I did find something I couldn’t live without.  The ferocious anticipation that overcomes me when danger is near.  When the full force of my animal instincts were set into motion.  The hunt was merely the prelude to a much darker symphony; the kill was orgasmic.

Wind whipped across me speeding down the interstate.  Philips was driving at a steady pace down the five lane freeway.  That was good.  There was no sign that he’d been spooked.  It would take another thirty minutes before we arrived at the border.  I settled in, relishing in the anticipation, it kept me focused.

A white sedan pulled up and began to change lanes right on top of me, forcing me into the commuter lane. It was an omnipresent hazard riding a bike but one you could count on – people are idiots and don’t know how to share the road.  I shook myself off and refocused on Philips.  His car was further ahead then I’d like.  I twisted down on the throttle, cutting in front of the white sedan.

The traffic was light by southern California standards.  I made my way closer to the Maserati staying a lane to the right, keeping my cool, allowing the thrill to continue to build. A white car suddenly veered in front of me, cutting me off.  I gripped my break pulling to the right, away from the tail of the car. The bastard had nearly slammed the noes of my bike.  This was an odd night for--

In my side mirror, headlights were approaching.  Fast. I downshifted, twisting the throttle and holding on tight with my legs.  
This was no full moon traffic accident.  These guys were doing this on purpose.  
I accelerated quickly, darting between traffic.  Splitting the lane between cars is technically legal in California, but only just.  I didn’t like making myself conspicuous to the law, especially when on a job but I wasn’t about to let myself become road-kill either.

The white sedan pulled back toward the center of the highway as I slipped between two cars, cutting into one of the center lanes.  The two cars were gaining on my quickly.  I had to stay far enough ahead to keep them from boxing me in.  That’s the last thing you need on an op. To be stranded alone behind enemy lines.  I took a deep breath speeding into the empty portion of highway as fast as I could.

I was much more comfortable with stealth than this kind of righteous bravado.  I mean, if you look at someone wrong on a motorcycle there’s a decent chance they’ll call the cops out of fear.  As I flew down the highway over a hundred miles per hour, engine screaming, I was sure the cops would be out in no time looking for the lunatic but at the moment reckless driving charges were the least of my worries.

In the brief time I’d been distracted, Philips car had pulled far ahead and nearly out of my vision.  Cursing under my breath I made my way to catch up.  The bike reacted to my every command, like an extension of my being.  The traffic was light but I still made my way between cars whenever possible pulling my body tight against the tank to take as much control away from the wind as possible.  The two white cars perusing me were barely distinguishable but for their sharp zig-zags in the chaos of traffic behind me.

This wasn’t working, the mission had been compromised.  Whoever these clowns were, I wouldn’t be able to finish my job with them in pursuit.  There was only one thing left to do.

Abort.

Philips car had become indistinguishable in the night traffic.  It was time for me to get off the freeway to somewhere my mobility would be an asset. The next exit was 1^st avenue. Downtown. Gas lamp quarter. It was the middle of the week so there wouldn’t be huge crowds, but I could lose these white sedans in the narrow city blocks and one way streets.

I swung from the center left lane to the off ramp, cutting off traffic on the way.  Tires screeched behind me. I wasn’t sure if it was from the chumps I’d cut off or the bastards who were following me.  Slowing only slightly as I approached the intersection I headed right into downtown.  The muffler echoed more loudly in the city streets off the high rise buildings.  I ran the first red light. I needed to get into pedestrian cover. Checking my side mirror, I couldn’t tell if they were still following me or not.  Traffic was much more congested, headlights all looked the same against the black backdrop.  I cut left, nearly being hit by an oncoming SUV.  I didn’t have the luxury of assuming I’d lost them.  When you’re in the field, it’s always life or death. 

I cut left again, this time slower trying to avoid pedestrians.  It may have been a week night but this was the trendy part of town.  If I weren’t running for my life I’d have made a comment about the number of hipsters per square block. I came through a small thorough fare back to the main street crossing an indented patch of sidewalk, pedestrians jumping away.  Once I ditched these guys, I thought still speeding around corners, I’d have to head for my safe-house.

These guys had to be working for Philips.  He must have caught wind of the assassination.  There must have been surveillance I had missed.  I didn’t have time to consider it now. I had to get myself to safety.

I reoriented myself back towards the freeway.  If they had followed me they were long lost in the trail of dust I’d left.  I took in slow breaths as I road through the city, slowing my pace.  Now that there wasn’t an immediate danger I needed to blend in.  I was already exhausted from the chase, but it was going  to be a long night erasing every trace of me from this city while remaining hidden from prying eyes.  Francesca would likely threaten me because the job wasn’t done.  That was a loose end to tie up, eventually.

The freeway was up ahead and still no sign of my pursuers. I wasn’t home free, simply on the next dangerous leg of the journey.  As I drove up the north bound ramp I saw a car accelerating on the shoulder, quickly matching my speed.

It was the white sedan.

Shit. My heart began to race again, adrenalin coursing through my veins. The car had matched speed and I was redlined.  The sedan forced me out into traffic across multiple lanes.  I down shifted, breaking, trying to swing around behind but traffic was much tighter in this direction.  I couldn’t escape it. I was frantically thinking, calculating, desperate for a  way to escape.

The back car tapped my back wheel. The stutter in its rotation sent the body of the bike rocking violently.  I held the handlebars tight, flexing every muscle in my body to keep the wheel straight. It was no use.

The handlebar ripped free and then I flew.
To Immortal Fear 2 > >