Revenge, Chapter 2. The Watcher

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A Book by EZPowell

Chapter 2. The Watcher

The watcher had rented a dingy hotel room in a nondescript building across the street from the embassy on the 12th floor of a nearby hotel The watcher watched. A tall, dark skinned man a really expensive suit that only very well-heeled money could buy emerged from the ornate double doors of the embassy. He walked as if he had a purpose, his gait deliberate, his head bent forward, not in concentration but in trying to achieve the utmost of speed without appearing to hurry.

“Is he walking?”, the radio in his ear said.

“Yes”, said the watcher.

“Which direction?”

“Down the hill”.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Opposite side of the street”.

“We have him. Wait for instructions”.

It was times like this that the watcher resented most. He hated working for people like this. He liked freedom of action. He liked to take the initiative. His own initiative usually made his survival easier. He had always valued his own existence more than anything else. Perhaps that was why he had survived for so long. But his current employer paid well, very well indeed. And they were serious people – not doing as he was told at this point would probably not help him to survive too long either. His current employer had a tendency to over react in certain situations. Any dissension would be taken as objection and make him an enemy to be targeted and exterminated. He stayed put.

He didn’t have to wait long. The watcher was an excellent timekeeper. When he saw the expensively suited man walking back up the street again he instantly unsnapped the flap on his watch quietly, glancing briefly as did when the man had glided off down the street with such purpose and determination.

“Precisely three minutes”, he thought. “What could he have done in three minutes?” The answer was of course a lot!

The watcher watched as he saw the dark suited, exuberantly dressed man walking back up the street again with a newspaper in his hand. The watcher shifted in his seat slightly, the weapon in the small of his back irritating him. He had been given the weapon by one his employer’s soldiers, who looked like a Virginia farm-boy in a suit he had thought wryly at the time. A clean-cut and what looked to be very well trained Virginia farm boy, so well trained as to be almost inconspicuous and completely nondescript, never standing out in a crowd. They were worried. Something big was afoot and they had caught wind of it.

The watcher concentrated on the suited diplomat again. This time the diplomat did not walk back into the embassy. Instead he stopped by the curb as a black Mercedes drew up at the curb next to him. The driver opened the driver-side door at the curb and stepped out, leaving the door open. The driver stepped aside as the diplomat slid into the automobile, closed the door and put on his seatbelt.

“That’s odd”, the watcher thought. Diplomats of such high stature rarely drive alone. And the switch, although blatantly obvious, must have been planned.

“What’s the problem”, the watcher thought. “He only went to buy a newspaper before heading home”.

His radio squawked and crackled in his ear again. “He has been contacted. You are to proceed to the planned location.”

“OK”, the watcher replied, reaching up to turn the radio off, and remove the microphone and earplug from his ear. He hated those things. The microphone got in the way and the earplug made him itch. He dropped the mike and earphone in his pocket.

“Wireless krap! He mumbled to himself. “This stuff never works properly”.

He moved sideways away from the window instinctively. He hated windows as well. He could see out of them but a world of people like himself could see in them as well. There was always a thought in the back of his mind that whilst he was watching, with his eyes or through the telescopic sight of a sniper’s rifle, that another crosshairs and another rifle was out there somewhere, searching for him, grid by grid, eventually finding him and delivering a final coup de grace with a high powered bullet down the middle of the tube leading to his cross hairs, a lens and his right eye, splashing his brains all over the wall behind him like an exploded melon.

He crouched, gathering his small bag, his bag of tricks: money, passports and all the tools of his brutal but necessary trade. At least his employers thought he was necessary now. They must really be concerned because these people rarely hired freelancers; but he was as untraceable as he was brutal. He had been instructed to make a hit and in a most obscure of manner. His task was not to reason why. He was then instructed to infiltrate and “strike fear into the hearts of the enemy”.

They had asked him to, “Infiltrate and obliterate as you proceed up their chain of command. What ever they have planned is big but we have no leads on it other than the diplomat. He is always contacted on his cellular phone. We can track his calls but not their source. The source appears to be an Internet call routed around the globe at least seven times. It is more or less untraceable. Do as much damage as you can and frighten them as much as possible. If we can scare them perhaps they will delay what they are planning until we can catch up with them. We have unsubstantiated information that their operatives are already on American soil or very close to it.” Of course, The Watcher had tracked the source and it was time to start frightening the heck out of his quarry.