Honorable Assassin (24 page)

There were three other men in the van aside
from himself; that included the driver. Sometimes one of the men
from the back rode in the passenger seat and talked to the driver,
sometimes all three of them sat in the back. They wore their
Proteus Security uniforms to complete the disguise and the locked
money bags were placed in a locked steel box welded to the inside
of the van. It was a hefty affair but nothing that couldn’t be
opened. Removing it would be more difficult.

The position did not pay as well as some of
the more dangerous driving jobs, but it did pay better than a
regular security job. It was not exciting or challenging but it was
right in the heart of the operation. The transport crew was not
allowed to know how much they transported. The bag was locked when
it went into the box and they never saw inside the bag. The only
indication they had of change was the size of the bag itself and
that could be very deceiving. The bag was always bigger the first
week of the month and got smaller toward the end.

It should be mentioned that Terry would by
no means be the first to consider slipping the money from the van.
There had been attempts from inside the organization before. Some
of them involved others, outsiders, and some were just mavericks,
cowboys. There had only been one such operation that had achieved
any success and that was fleeting. A group of men had been rounded
up and information was extracted from them. The trail led back to
one of the guards and he was found, horribly mutilated, in a
dumpster behind a restaurant. The trash was not picked up often,
there, and the rats had made a mess of him by the time they found
him. They also found his brother, killed but not mutilated, and his
sister, raped and murdered. This had happened some years back and
nobody had tried anything like it since. Being told about the
incident was supposed to remind Terry what happens to those who
cross the organization, it served to turn him in the opposite
direction. Reminding him that the Troys would go after family,
women and children, reinforced his commitment. It didn’t matter who
replaced them as long as they were removed.

The new position had more access to Randy
Arganmajc. Although they had met once, Terry never spoke to him
directly, for three reasons.

Randy Arganmajc drove around in new luxury
automobiles and wore expensive tailored suits. He was a member of
at least two exclusive gentleman’s clubs and went sailing on the
weekend. He rubbed elbows with the upper crust of society. Randy
took those who worked for him for granted; they were invisible to
him. Terry Kingston wanted to keep it that way.

Randy was a sharp individual with a head for
business. He calculated the angles of offers that crossed his desk
and deals that approached him in the smoke-filled rooms of the
clubs. If there was a possible benefit for him, he turned his
attention toward it, regardless of who was making the offer. This
was the one exception he made for his faceless subordinates. Terry
had no offers for him and no deals to negotiate.

Despite the fact that Randy was an arrogant
child of privilege and a snob, he had quite a magnetic personality.
Women were drawn to him and men sought his company. Randy was
seldom alone and Terry did not like to be seen by people who might
remember him. Moreover, he did not want to like Randy
Arganmajc.

When Randy had been forced to replace Mark
Valentine and Bruno it had not taken long, but it had cost much in
terms of revenue and connections. When he had the decision made for
him that he would remove Victor Wellington from service, it had not
been as costly. The man who replaced Victor Wellington, Gregory
Spencer, was understandably nervous about making a decision. He
wanted to check with Randy about everything and was desperate to
display his loyalty. At first Randy had found it endearing but it
got stale quickly. He knew Gregory was not real management material
but his available workforce was diminished. The raids the police
had done before the Olympics and the predations of the Irishman had
left the younger candidates leery of a career in crime. There would
always be men willing to join the organization, but real talent was
scarce.

Once Terry had been working within the
organization for a time, he began to ask about some of the
legendary figures that had preceded him. The only one he was really
interested in was The Viper. There was an aura of mystery about him
and he had different people tell him different theories about who
The Viper really was, but no one had any solid evidence of where he
had gone or what had happened. He had simply disappeared. The more
intelligent of the crowd knew he had been killed simply because
“There’s no such thing as an old assassin.”

There were no records of when men took
positions of power in the underworld. Men’s memories were unclear
and distorted but it seemed the consensus of opinion was that Randy
had taken his present position in 1987. His predecessor, Felix
Ribbaldi, had been in power for a long time but had gotten sloppy.
He was lured into the cocaine trap and had been addicted to it
badly. It was not difficult to look up the records on Felix. Felix
had been indicted for trafficking in cocaine and had been offered a
deal if he testified against his superiors and suppliers. Felix
Ribbaldi had never made it to trial. He had been killed by a .50
caliber round while in custody. The case was still open since the
killer had never been found.

Terry’s eyes opened wide as he read the old
news stories. He had no doubt about who had killed Felix Ribbaldi.
The Viper had killed him. Pieces began to fall into place. The
information had been there all along, he had simply not known what
he was looking for. The answer to the question that had been
plaguing him since he was eight years old was right in front of
him. All his moral reservations and uncertainty were washed away in
a white hot flash of rage and he saw, once again, his mother’s
brains being blown all over the hospital wall.

It took all he had not to make a mistake at
this point. He wanted a drink but refused to go down that path. He
wanted to barge into the Riggers Club and blow Randy Arganmajc’s
brains all over the velvet upholstery but he maintained his seat.
He had not done any drugs in a while, it was frowned on in his
position, and he did not even consider that outlet. He sat and
considered his options carefully. The library would be closing soon
and the wrinkled old crone of a librarian was gently reminding the
remaining customers of that.

Terry’s head spun as he drove back to his
apartment. He had been driving the Holden for months now and
parking it a couple of blocks away in a rented garage. The walk to
the apartment let him check to see if he was being followed. While
some might have considered that paranoia, others would have seen it
as a reasonable precaution.

While the computer was a wonderful tool,
Terry always wrote his letters by hand and mailed them at the post
office.

Uncle,

I have discovered that which I sought. The
problem came from Iran and was diverted here somehow. I would like
very much to talk to this Iranian. If you could make that happen I
would appreciate it. I will enlighten you as to the true nature of
this business when we share a cup of tea.

Sincerely,

Terry

The dreams that punctuated his sleep that
night were horrific and violent. When he awoke the next day it was
as if he had never slept. His co-workers commented on his condition
but he told them he was hung over again. Being young and prone to
tipping a few, his excuse was accepted out of hand.

When Ginger got the letter, he became
somewhat concerned. The Iranian diverted to Australia was obviously
the .50 caliber Barrett. That rifle had not been employed in many
years. The last time it had been used in an operation was when
George had taken it for a job shortly before he had been killed and
the only thing Ginger could think of was the assault on the Troy’s
armored limousine. He hoped his nephew was not planning on doing
something stupid. The cup of tea was a pre-arranged signal
indicating the room in Orange.

Summer was over and it had been a hot one.
The sky was overcast and all the farmers were hoping it would rain
once or twice before harvest time. The trip to Orange seemed to
take forever and it was dark when Ginger carried the crate
containing the rifle into the room. At the last second he hesitated
and then he took the ammunition back to the truck. He was very
concerned and wanted to talk to Terry before allowing him to use
such a unique weapon. “
Do not call attention to yourself
,”
was his thought. Death from afar would call attention to the
job.

Terry did not make it to Orange until
Saturday. He noted that Ginger had left the weapon and not the
ammunition. He knew he had to visit the farm but felt he needed to
clear his head a bit first. He called Linda Pierce and got a cool
reception. They had not been in contact much after the scheme that
had ended her ex-husband’s life. It had been a necessity that they
stay apart for a while.

By the time they saw each other in person,
however, Linda had gotten over being angry. They enjoyed each
other’s company the rest of the day and Terry left in the morning
to visit his Uncle. Linda went back home knowing subconsciously
that she had been used and not caring much.

Sunday was rainy, though not rainy enough
for the crops. Ginger was welding some equipment back together when
his nephew pulled in the driveway. Hercules went mad until he
realized it was Terry. After a few minutes, the two men went inside
and had some lemonade. They made small talk for a while, talking
about the crops and the dogs and the sheep. Then Terry asked why
there had been no ammunition with the sniper rifle.

“I know you’re a grown man and capable of
making your own decisions,” Ginger said slowly, “but I’m afraid
you’re about to go into an operation of a personal nature. That
rifle has not been used on anything but trees for a long time.”

“It works perfectly. There is nothing wrong
with it.”

“I am not so concerned about the gun, as the
man. Nobody uses a weapon like that outside of combat. Your father
only used it once and I’m afraid the police will make the
connection instantly. More than that, I’m sure the men you are
currently consorting with will know. Whatever your father did with
that rifle probably caused his death.”

“I know that. That’s why I wanted it. I want
them to know.”

“You’re not using your head. They knew who
your father was. They knew his real name. If his weapon suddenly
surfaces, they will make the connection instantly and will come
looking for me. And you. It’s going to take more than a big dog to
stop them. I’m not telling you not to do this thing, I’m suggesting
that you use a different tool.”

“I thought it would only be right if I used
the Barrett.”

“I won’t forbid you from using it, I’m only
saying it is too risky. If you do this thing, you’ll be signing my
death warrant and yours as well.”

“You may be right. What would you
suggest?”

“What happened to the SP66?”

“I left it in the Irishman’s trailer, well,
Linda did, actually. It was the final bit of evidence proving his
identity as the Irishman.”

“Oh… Good move.”

“Right. Even the coppers were happy with
that one.”

“Well then, the Irishman’s been retired. He
was useful while he existed and now he’s dead. I suggest we use a
new approach. Tell me, is it the Troy Brothers this time?”

“No. I think it was their number one contact
in Sydney that gave the order to have my father killed. Randy
Arganmajc took control right after Felix Ribbaldi was shot through
the chest with a .50 caliber round.”

“Now I understand. Your father did the man
and they had him killed for it. Did you find out why your father
was contracted to kill the man?”

“He was turning state’s evidence. He had
been caught and was squealing like a pig.”

“There is still something missing. I don’t
know what but there is something missing.”

“I thought so too, but I can’t find it.”

“Stay the night and we’ll formulate
something.”

“I can’t, I have a job of sorts. It involves
guarding and transporting money rather than contraband and it gives
me a proper in, as well as an alibi.”

“All right then. I urge you not to use the
Barrett.”

“I guess you’re right. I will take a few of
those sticks of dynamite, then, and a detonator.”

“Oh, a detonator. A fuse is not good enough
for you any more?”

“Come off it, Uncle. You’re teasing me
now.”

Before he left, Terry got a canvas bag full
of explosives and .50 caliber shells.

When he had first taken command of the
Sydney underground, Randy Arganmajc had been a very cautious man. A
security team had covered him constantly. He not only used them for
protection against assassination, he used them for proof that he
was not in contact with any one from the other side of the line. He
felt, back then, that a little bit of suspicion would get him the
same fate Felix Ribbaldi had earned. Over the years, the need for
the constant protection had waned but then the Irishman problem had
cropped up and he had been forced to replace his subordinates
repeatedly. He wanted to reinstitute the protection squad but now
he was too short on men. Sydney had been hit hardest by the recent
events. The courts had released some of the men rounded up before
the Olympics but there were others that had been sentenced to long
terms in prison. Many of the new men came from outside of the
Sydney area and, while some of them had skills, they did not have
contacts and they did not inspire faith.

In the 14 or so years that Randy Arganmajc
had been in charge of the Sydney area, he had never been arrested
or assassinated. His secret was simple; he distanced himself from
the business and ran it from afar. He did not do the street drugs
that brought in so much money. He did not gamble ostentatiously,
though sometimes he needed to show some excess to out of town
clients. He had certain women that he consorted with and he kept
them in fine style as long as they were available to him when he
desired them and did not bother him when he did not.