The sound of the canon from Key West’s Mallory Square echoed faintly in Adam Phillip’s consciousness. He stood at the end of the White Street pier looking across the water and beyond the horizon. Infinite possibilities for life he’d been taught as a child were replaced by the realization his time on earth approached its conclusion.
Murder was the assignment. It was a task that had been completed nearly one hundred times during his career. Victims were never easy targets. Adam dealt with high level political assassinations. Mostly men who were well protected. The occasional female target proved most difficult.
Personal experience echoed memories of a mother who’d instilled life’s infinite possibilities. Women captured by evil proved especially difficult for him to perform assigned tasks. No one in his life had been more nurturing than his mother. He found himself existing in a time when only the intensity of a mother’s love could overcome forces working against humanity’s survival.
Failures haunted the man who sacrificed his life eliminating evil from the planet. World views had been shaped by parents ignorant of widespread malevolence inhabiting the globe. Innocence was exacerbated by the fact he grew up in a small hamlet in the panhandle of Florida. Isolation during youth slowed the awareness of power structures across the globe and how truly interconnected they were.
Every Saturday as a child was spent at the local library. His mother exposed him to every resource that broadened Adam’s mind beyond local circumstances. STEM subjects piqued the young man’s interests most. That which could be logically proven through mathematics satiated his innate desire for truth. Facts surrounding the environment in which he was raised never jibed with familial assertions of contentment. Relying on the generosity of others and government assistance weakened those around him. His family never experienced financial independence. Being made subservient never set well with Adam. He wanted to be free to move about the world.
Witnessing the dichotomy of blissful ignorance and his family’s descent into poverty drove Adam further from family. No one was willing to acknowledge dire circumstances they’d created for themselves. The boy’s logical mind separated failures into that which could have been controlled by his parents and those considered environmental.
Saturdays when most kids were happy to sit at story-time in the library, Adam drifted from the group and sought out advanced material. Physics was his preferred subject. His consciousness was thrust to the four corners of the known universe. It was the only manner in which he escaped an environment over which he had no control.
Blame for financial circumstances beyond his father’s control was heaped upon out-of-control stagflation of the nineteen seventies. Adam felt the financial strain placed on his family by a phenomenon no one seemed to understand. Inquiries by the child were met with anger. Curiosity drove him beyond his preferred subject, into that of economics. Soaking in the teachings of Milton Friedman brought a keen understanding of how a monetary base untethered and wildly printed destroyed financial circumstances of all except those rare few who controlled the printing. An increasingly complex world purposefully destroyed intergenerational bonds. Adam was left to seek out life’s meaning alone.
Keen intellect exhibited during undergraduate and graduate work at USC and UCLA was rewarded with a scholarship to Stanford University to study Physics. Full scholarships were aplenty and afforded the young student the opportunity to leave his economically depressed hometown for the riches of California. His body matured during his time in Palo Alto. He emerged from his time there with a PhD. Youthful strength sought an outlet for deep seated anger disseminated by a father who embraced corporal punishment over intellectual conversations.
On a whim he took a psychological profile offered a select few students. Initially, it was viewed by the graduate as a means of satisfying burgeoning curiosity toward all sciences. What he didn’t realize was it had been administered by the Central Intelligence Agency.
Recruitment into the company was viewed by Adam as the perfect situation. Physical strength thirsted for the opportunity to eliminate those he saw as the cause of inequity throughout the world. Seeds of anger planted into the child grew unchecked. The young man lived solely within his ego. Without consideration of a greater self, he was prevented from making compassionate connections with humanity.
Adam glanced at his Rolex Submariner. It was after 9:00 PM. He began his walk toward Truman Annex. It was a night for executing an assignment communicated through back-channels. From the small Island only ninety miles north of Havana, Cuba, Adam launched into Central and South America whenever his job required. Over the prior decade, several jobs were completed in Key West. It was a place that not only attracted unsettled souls in search of nubile flesh, but those in search of world class fishing and water sports. Its proximity to Miami offered an additional lure.
Adam meandered west down White Street. He took on the look of a tourist wearing baggy cargo shorts and a Guy Harvey shirt printed with blue marlins breaching the water’s surface.
His home was blocks away on Southard Street. Whenever there was a job to do, he left its comfort behind and disassociated himself from the relief it offered. Adam tapped into his childhood rage whenever he was tasked with killing another human. It was a hue of energy he never wished to infect his home. He’d witnessed the damage thrust upon siblings in a household filled with anger.
His wife, son, and daughter-in-law had been killed in an accident eighteen months earlier. Only he and his adopted granddaughter remained.
Desperate attempts to maintain a connection with Carolyn, his wife, fused passion and logic. After the deaths of his family, Adam’s scientific mind reconnected with his conception of God so eloquently proved in his doctoral thesis. It was based in the purity of energy, and he was certain his lifestyle prevented life beyond his earthly manifestation. He was convinced multiple deaths by his hand tainted his spirit. He feared his soul would be pushed beyond the fruitful upon death, like the negative pole of a magnet. Never would he be allowed to exist among the right and just. Like the energy pushed through the dead circuit of an electric iron, he saw his life ending in a heated rage.
Adam turned on South Street toward the east end of Duval. Foot traffic increased the closer he got to the avenue of a thousand abuses. He mingled amongst tourists and locals seeking debauched pleasures. Judgment was absent the man possessing fresh memories of his own descent into alcohol abuse. During their twenty-eight-year marriage, Carolyn taught Adam the concept of eternity. He witnessed her countenance as it aged but found their bond strengthening beyond potential for collapse. Would the universe allow them to be together after his death?
Three years earlier he’d given up alcohol. No longer numb to the world, his attraction to his wife grew more intense. Thoughts of his ultimate demise entered his consciousness daily. He hoped they would be reunited after death but knew only outright repentance would counter evil deeds.
The only person that prevented willful crossover was his granddaughter, Maritza. She was sixteen years old, and there was so much he needed to tell her about the world. He needed to be her most ardent supporter. She would need to be told of the evil that will always inhabit the world, and how he’d succumb to its siren song. Adam knew he couldn’t abandon her.
The assassin turned right on Duval Street and began his trek toward the west end of the thoroughfare. Far from the docks where cruise ships brought families to the island were the less family friendly businesses that occupied this end of the street. Bathhouses and drag bars flourished peddling the flesh so many desired. As he approached these establishments he crossed to the opposite side of the street. His actions were not borne of derision. Months earlier there had been a shooting at the Adam and Adam Club. He simply desired a more defensive position if gunfire broke the night air once again.
A small Sig Sauer P365 9mm pistol felt weighty inside his left pocket. Its small profile alerted no one on the street to its presence. Adam tugged lightly on the pocket’s rim to experience the substance of the gun. His action offered assurance to its existence.
Hours were spent meandering. Taking on the aimless path of a tourist acted as camouflage. Circumstances were set for him to take custody of the target of his assassination at 3:00 AM. Orders came down that he would be joined by a young associate. It was the first time in over a decade Adam was made to include another intelligence asset during a mission. But why?
The two met earlier in the day at a diner on Roosevelt Boulevard. The young agent was twenty-five years of age and filled with self-importance. His name was a disguise given to him by the agency, Jim Norton.
As Adam recalled their meeting, echoing in his thoughts was the constant tapping on the table of the man’s signet ring. The action was incessant, and the older agent felt its repetition was meant to convey a message. What that was, he had yet to ascertain.
Nearing 11:00 PM, Adam passed the Bison and Flute Pub. Erratic roaming dulled awareness of immediate surroundings. The agent was startled when a couple in their late thirties stepped out of the stairwell that led to the rooftop clothing optional bar. A stalemate ensued as they stopped on the sidewalk in front of him. Quickly he stepped aside and kept moving forward; until he heard his name being called.
“Adam,” the young woman called. He didn’t turn and kept walking.
Again, she called but louder. “Adam.”
He was forced to turn and extinguish the situation that threatened to expose his identity. Standing and smiling at him were Mary Miller and her husband Lester Goldman. Chills ran down the man’s spine at the realization of who stood before him. He shook his head and replied, “wrong guy.” Without another word, Phillips turned and walked quickly toward Mallory Square.
Fear prevented him from turning to see if the couple was following him. Hopefully, the message had been heeded. He couldn’t be bothered.
Time approached midnight and he stood along the railing at Mallory Square. Only then did he take the time to search the faces of the dwindling crowd for Mary and Lester. They were nowhere to be seen.
Mary was a television journalist. A beautiful woman from South Africa who immigrated to the United States after attending college in country. She’d gained a reputation as one who sought truth. It was a sadly unique trait entering the third decade of the twenty-first century. Troubling was the fact she knew exactly who Adam was, and the job he’d performed for three decades. Not even his wife possessed that knowledge.
Two years prior he’d shared information with Mary concerning a global human trafficking ring that’d been operating out of the Ukraine. When her bosses refused to air the story, she took to social media with her findings. Her account was censored, and she lost all credibility within the media community.
Determination by Mary to expose the truth cost her dearly. Acting on orders, a gang of Taliban soldiers in Afghanistan brutally raped her. It was hoped, by those issuing orders, she would succumb to the brutality. Her death would be martyred and exploited by media narratives. She proved too strong. Adam embraced more respect for the woman he was forced to ignore than anyone he’d ever known.
The aging operative felt responsible for what happened to the woman he considered a friend. He loved her without reservation; like a sister. Exacerbating discomfort was the recollection he’d never been able to visit her in the hospital. Had he, it would have alerted his bosses he was the source of information regarding Ukrainian human trafficking.
Lester stood by his wife and nurtured her physical and emotional being back to health. It seemed serendipitous their first trip as a couple led to an encounter with Adam. Familiarities were cast aside by the couple. Mary was astute and realized their friend possessed a higher calling that night.
More time was spent meandering as a tourist, lost and without direction.
Apparent indecision was discarded in favor of the mission’s purpose when he made his way down Thomas Street, to the rear entrance of Truman Annex. Punching the code onto the rear iron gate’s lock, he released its hold and pushed open the entrance. He walked down Fleming Street and took the first left onto Porter Lane. Continuing until its conclusion in a parking area, he walked to a black Chrysler 300 that had been parked there to accomplish the evening’s mission.
Inside the vehicle were black pants and shirt, into which he quickly changed. He looked at his watch once again. It was 1:00 AM. Adam folded his arms across his chest and waited for Norton to join him.
For two hours Adam sat and thought about his past. Repressed experiences were brought into his consciousness to appease an ever-present desire for critical examination. Strength had left his aging body and he focused on the ethereal. Memories occupying points along the timeline of his life were brought together to create a mosaic of the man he’d become. Although cracked and imperfect, he conceived a path toward an eternal existence with the wife he missed dearly. Murders by his hand muddied that vision.
Adam’s memories possessed the potential for destruction. He’d never used his knowledge of the universe to advance humanity’s understanding of their place within infinite society. The assassin knew there was a way forward for all of humanity to coexist, and flourish eternally. His only failure was that he’d yet to quantify the concept.
Mary once again filled his thoughts. Until the assault she was forced to endure, he innocently thought her cache could bring about meaningful change to humanity. She had the platform upon which to communicate the source of all that was wrong in the world. She was meant to die that day. The same men who ordered her rape, directed Adam to work with an unknown associate. Was it his turn to die?
Adam was allowed to operate as a lone assassin for nearly a decade. Jim Norton had been inserted into his world for one purpose; or so Adam worried. Decades of rotating politicians promising peace, while simultaneously implementing war, tainted the man’s view. No matter the party to which one subscribed, the advancement of democracy through violent means continued unabated since the assassination of JFK. Adam’s understanding resolved the source of control emanated from a handful of elite families who’d been in control of humanity for a millennium.
The Nazis’ desire for a thousand-year Reich and its connection to elite families was easily conceived by the man with knowledge of global political machinery. Force never provided peace. It was a method; a means to an end; and those in control would not relent until their ultimate goal was achieved. What that final objective was, only few elites knew. Adam had been a mere cog in the machinery.
The assassin understood even though an objective may be reached, violence would be the manner in which hegemony over humanity was maintained. There would never be peace for the survivors; those who aligned themselves with the elite. Desire for destruction embraced by evil could never be satiated.
Adam was startled by tapping of Norton’s signet ring on the passenger’s side window. He pressed the door unlock button and the young agent opened the door and entered the car.
There was something devious emanating from the young man’s eyes as he stared at Adam. “You ready to murder a Cuban national?”
Fear of triggering the younger man’s presumed second directive, his murder at the hands of an up-and-comer, was blunted when Adam agreed. “Sure.”
There was so much more going through his mind. He looked down at Jim’s left hand resting on his thigh. The ring he seemed so fond of populated the third finger of that hand. Did that signify devotion to that which it represented? Symbolism meant something to evil, and its design conveyed several malevolent symbols.
“So, what do you think Project Trinity is?” the young agent asked, impetuously.
Something contained in the energy that connected the two on this night spoke to Adam. His partner’s inquiry seemed exploratory, less concerned about the man who’d been targeted for assassination. “Maybe we should ask the Cuban, once we take him into custody.”
The two sat silent for several minutes.
Jim fractured the stillness once again. “I bet it has something to do with assassinating the president. You know one-third of the balance of power.”
“Hmmm. Maybe so.”
“Or it could be about the assassination of the third house of Saud?”
Adam looked sternly at his partner. “What would be accomplished by that?”
The young agent shrugged. “Just spit balling.”
Wild theories were cast into the conversation to offer a broad array of possibilities. Doing so was meant to elicit from Adam knowledge as to Project Trinity’s stated goal. It was a mission known to the younger agent. His soul had been compromised by promises of eternal human existence. Differences between the men were stark. It wasn’t as simple as occupying different stages of life. Adam’s perspective was universal. What was to be encountered beyond death and how minuscule human lives were on an eternal timeline was the manner in which Adam approached life.
Norton was all about preserving the pleasures of flesh as long as possible. Beset by desire, the young agent believed those who controlled him possessed universal knowledge that could make immortality a reality. It was how they mocked God; feeling as though they controlled the ultimate disposition of souls.
Any extension of life proved temporary. Adam understood. Jim didn’t.
The driver checked his watch. It was time. He pressed the ignition button and the car’s engine roared to life. He backed out of the space and made his way to Fleming Street. He took a left, advanced a hundred feet and then another left on Emma Street. Stopping at Southard Street before turning left, Adam considered the irony his house was a mere quarter mile away. Thoughts of his granddaughter sleeping soundly offered comfort to a man heading toward destruction.
He maneuvered the car left and continued past the guardhouse. A right on Whitehead Street propelled the car away from their intended destination. As circuitous as his pedestrian path had been, so was that of the two men in the vehicle. Convoluted courses were meant to disguise intent.
The witching hour passed three hours earlier. Simonton Street was deserted. The asphalt glistened from tropical rains all too familiar to Key West. Yellows, reds, and greens flashed on the road’s surface with the intermittent changing of traffic lights. Faint sounds of revelers could be heard from Duval Street. He enjoyed the cover of darkness and its solitude. No one wandered more than a block away from the central party hub at that hour. Operations in the dark were the specialty of the federal government and its minions.
Adam drove the four-door black Chrysler 300 speedily down the empty thoroughfare. Tires hissed constantly on the rain-soaked road as Adam made his way toward their destination. Their mission was to disappear a Cuban national caught passing intel on Project Trinity to a CIA informant in Dubai. His crimes had been committed in a far-away land, but he’d been brought to Key West due to its proximity to his homeland. The appearance of his dead body in these waters could be easily explained. The men were fortunate that green traffic signals lit their entire path.
The agents’ destination was the federal courthouse. It was one of the grandest structures on the island, a massive two-story edifice clad in limestone mined from a local quarry. It took up half a city block. Its parking lot sat on the other half. Surrounding the lot were iron spikes, seven feet tall and four inches in circumference. The tips were painted gold and meant to dress up an otherwise medieval-looking threat against unlawful intruders.
The tires skidded slightly as Adam turned into the courthouse’s drive at a speed slightly beyond safe. He braked hard, bringing the vehicle to a stop in front of the iron-spiked barricade.
His young passenger got out of the car and approached the gate’s gold painted lock as he took a key from his right front pocket. He opened the lock, removed the heavy chain, and pulled mightily to slide the heavy gate open.
Adam drove through the gate and pulled into the parking spot around the rear corner of the building nearest a large, windowless steel door.
The young passenger left the gate open and jogged to the back of the building. He rounded the corner, so he’d be hidden from the view of anyone passing on the street. As an added precaution he pulled his Glock 19A from his belt and a silencer from his jacket pocket. He joined the two.
Adam emerged from the car and hurried to the rear door. He pulled a single key from his pants pocket, unlocked the door, and disappeared into the dark courthouse.
Feeling along the rear wall, he found the switch. The long rear corridor filled with light.
At the end of the hall, he found what he was looking for—a holding cell next to the bailiff’s entrance to the main courtroom. It was never meant to house anyone overnight, but inside lay a man on a wooden bench. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and a black hood, cinched at the neck, covered his head.
The startled prisoner struggled to sit up as Adam unlocked the door and stepped inside. Moving quickly, he concentrated on the task at hand. He was forced to keep at bay compassionate thoughts possessing the potential to distract him. Adam blocked out philosophical considerations at moments like this. He’d honed the skill over decades of completing horrific jobs on behalf of God and country. His concept of God and the universe changed greatly throughout life. Constantly changing viewpoints possessed the potential to destroy the man.
He grabbed the prisoner’s right bicep, yanked him from the cell, and walked him out of the building. Neither said a word.
When the lookout saw the two emerge from the courthouse, he gave one last glance toward the empty street, fell back from his position, and retook his seat on the passenger side of the Chrysler.
Adam shoved the hooded captive into the back seat. Norton turned around and pressed the end of his silencer to the man’s forehead—the only statement necessary.
Adam settled into his seat and closed the car door as quietly as he could, not wanting to draw attention to happenings behind the courthouse building.
Questions about the night’s mission popped off in his mind like Fourth of July fireworks. As much as he wished to press the accelerator and be done with the task that lay ahead, decades of experience overcame his impulse. Age changed him. No longer did he simply give over his trust to authority. Contemplating his place in the universe brought him to the realization no one was above God. Why should he trust the narrative offered by a flawed human? He himself possessed many failings. Examining every aspect of his time on earth was supposed to bring him satisfaction his was a life well-lived. But as he controlled the circumstances that would lead to the death of another, Adam wondered if he’d ever made a Godly decision.
The trip east on Simonton Street was not nearly as smooth as the trip to the courthouse. Shimmering green asphalt gave way to frustrating, intermittent red as the car seemed to encounter every stop light on the street. Adam just wanted the night to be over.
Finally, the assassin drove sharply left onto Windsor Lane. Although the task of taking another man’s life lay ahead, Adam’s anxiety dissipated as the conclusion of his mission grew nigh. He’d become numb to the deaths of others. His own imminent demise weighed heavily on him.
The driver turned left onto Passover Lane and drove the short distance to the three-way intersection of Passover, Angela Street, and Carey Lane. He turned into the entrance of the cemetery.
Slowly, the driver steered the car toward the center of the graveyard. He knew its layout well. He took the fifth path to the left and brought the car to a stop in front of a mausoleum with the name “Robert Otto” inscribed on its façade.
The entire trip had been made in silence. Adam knew words could get someone killed, and the fewer spoken, the greater his chance of survival.
The driver quickly emerged from the car and moved toward the great stone edifice. With the tip of his shoe, he tapped out a distinct pattern on a group of stones that lay on the side of the burial house. The rear wall slowly sank into ground revealing an iron staircase that led down through hollowed out limestone, and into complete darkness.
The driver returned to the car, reached into the back seat, grabbed the prisoner by the upper arm, and hauled him out and onto his feet. He nodded for his accomplice to take control of the prisoner. The three men moved quickly around the mausoleum, through the doorway, down into the darkness, and out of sight.
Adam went ahead of the other two. It was completely dark, but he knew the layout of the murder chamber like it was his own living room. When he reached the landing, he flipped a switch, filling the space with an eerie red glow.
He reached out and grabbed the top of the hood and removed it from his prisoner’s head. It took only a moment for the Cuban’s eyes to adjust to the softer red light.
Two steps down from the platform on which they stood the prisoner saw an iron mechanism that resembled the jaws of a large shark. Fashioned along each mandible were metal, serrated teeth. It was obviously designed to precisely mimic the bite of a Great White. Farther below ran a stream that had been cut from the limestone. Affected by tides, its level rose and fell with the currents and storm surge that regularly influenced the island.
The Cuban put two and two together and envisioned his shark-mangled body washed out to sea and then back onto a Key West beach. He looked to his left, then to his right. Each of his captors held one of his arms. They controlled what little of his life remained. As a Cuban intelligence operative, he knew this day would eventually come.
“Interesting little James Bond contraption you have set up,” he said bravely. “You Americans come up with such unique ways to hide your crimes.”
The man’s bravado caught even Adam, the veteran assassin, off guard.
The Cuban looked at Adam and smirked. “At least I can go to my grave knowing the United States sent their most prolific murderer after me.” Neither captor responded. “What’s the matter? Neither of you seem to be having any fun. Isn’t this why you got into this line of work? So you can murder bad people? Or at least those your government deems bad?”
“You’re getting to be a bit too mouthy,” the young captor said, before punching him in the face with his free hand.
The man’s head snapped back. Upon gathering his composure, he laughed. “Watch the ring, asshole.”
“Okay, let’s get on with this,” Adam said. “Do you have anything else you want to say to God before we kill you?” His words were sincere.
“I have one question of you, and then I will speak to God. If that’s okay.”
“Go ahead.”
“For what crime do I stand judged by your government and by the two of you?”
Adam was confident and matter of fact. “You were caught passing information on Project Trinity. In other words, you’ve been engaged in an effort to eliminate most of the world’s population.” The leader had unwittingly acknowledged his understanding of the global elite’s directive.
“Wrong. I was passing bogus information meant to flush out the true perpetrators of Project Trinity.”
"Oh?” said Adam. “Who’s that?”
“They aren’t who you think they are. Just like your bosses have never been the originators of your orders. A consortium of intelligence assets from all over the world have been working off the books to prevent programs like Project Trinity from happening.”
Adam’s epiphany brought forth the realization his work on that night was merely a repetition of lifelong behavior; an action devoid of critical thought. Seeking greater awareness brought him to this point in life. Aging flesh shifted focus to energy contained within his soul. That which propelled him forward had been tainted by societal impediments. He conceived all humans should be afforded the opportunity to freely express their souls. Was the Cuban’s energy pure?
Upon meeting Norton earlier that evening at a diner, he examined the man’s signet ring to which the Cuban referred. It had the all-seeing eye surrounded by three black onyxes that formed a two-dimensional pyramid. Rays emanated from the larger, top stone, signifying the black sun worshipped by World War II–era Nazis. The dark star symbolized our galaxy’s black hole, destroying all matter approaching its event horizon. It was an evil bastardization of the Christian Trinity. A singular inflection point in a man’s life could never have been more obvious.
The Cuban saw through the assassin’s eyes and into his soul. Adam’s hesitance was all too obvious. He continued questioning the man’s actions. “What makes your country better than mine? We don’t have the prostitution and human-trafficking problem your country has. We don’t have the drug problem your country has. Are Cubans that different from Americans? No! You must ask yourself why is that? Is your government complicit? With the NSA recording every single conversation, text, and website traffic, why is it that the people who are causing so much damage to your country have not been arrested? I’ll tell you. Your politicians, judges, and corporate executives are profiting from it. We are both in the intelligence game. Do you honestly think Fidel didn’t know these things? Of course, he did. He may have overreacted in tightening restrictions in my country, but he succeeded in many ways. Your own John Adams said, ‘Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.’ Or did they not teach you that in your school?” He chuckled. “Americans think themselves as intellectuals. Yet whenever anyone possesses a contradictory ideology, your solution is to eliminate them with some crude medieval device hidden inside a limestone cave.” He tossed his head toward the jaws of death.
Norton shifted his feet. “All right. Say adios, amigo.” All he desired was the orgasmic burst of vitality felt in taking the life of another.
Adam held up a calming hand.
The Cuban viewed his captor’s hesitation as an inducement to continue. “We live in a world where we have to compete. There are no easy ways out. There are no shortcuts. Those who promise such are destroying those who follow them. Think about the timeline of your life. American households in the fifties and sixties could exist on one income. Now people must use a credit card to buy groceries. It’s all by design.” He saw that he was not getting through to Adam. It needed to become personal. “What kind of world do you wish to leave for your Guatemalan born granddaughter? Do you know how lucky she is? Did you know the adoption service your son used was set up to benefit human traffickers and pedophiles? Women having babies for the sole purpose of making money feeds the supply line. Your granddaughter’s soul is fortunate to have made its way into your home. Now it’s up to you to educate her properly to the evil that exists in the world, and from where it comes.”
Adam never considered assets from adversarial agencies would research him. Simultaneously, it scared him while making perfect sense. Another epiphany rang within his being. He’d become so much an arrogantly blunt instrument, he couldn’t fathom himself the target of another agency. Was the Cuban trying to send a message? His enemy’s words contained urgency. Did the prisoner know Adam was meant to die that night? Did Norton truly have a second directive?
Wisdom comes from age and experience. The Cuban’s thoughts paralleled many of Adam’s recent judgments. He realized the murder of this man was meant to further the agenda of evil. How much damage would Adam do to humanity by taking from it this man who seemed to care so much? He gambled with his life every time he accepted a mission. The situation in which he found himself mimicked that of a roulette wheel. Should he bet red or black?
He raised his gun and aimed it at the forehead of his captive.
“Wait,” the Cuban pleaded. “You promised one last talk with God.”
Adam sighed. “Okay.” He lowered his gun frustratingly, allowing it to slap against his leg.
Hands still cuffed behind his back, the Cuban dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Dear God. The souls contained in these three men have been brought together under dubious circumstances. We ask you not judge us for the failings of human flesh but allow us to exist together in harmony for all of eternity.” The captive’s tone seemed sincere.
Adam furrowed his brow. The man was about to die, yet he prayed for the eternal peace of his executioners. Just when he thought he’d figured out life, someone did something so surprisingly selfless. Childlike innocence had long been suppressed in favor of acute skepticism. Deep within the recesses of his mind Adam recalled saying prayers each night with his mother. Requests for humanity’s happiness were pure to the child. The Cuban’s prayer sparked his long dormant faith in humanity. Adam grew in the moment. He understood his intended victim possessed not only wisdom and strength, but love for his fellow man; regardless of circumstances. Spiritual awareness was the only path that would propel the man toward a universal existence beyond his earthly vessel. It was that same peace of mind Adam sought.
Shaking his head, he raised the gun toward his captive’s face, shifted it upward and fired. The bullet struck Norton between the eyes. The young man’s arm went slack, and his gun fell from his hand and clanged onto the metal deck. Then the man himself slumped and fell to the floor.
Adam hurried to the body. He grabbed the gun off the deck and tossed it into the subterranean canal. Then he grabbed the young man under the shoulders and began dragging him down the two steps toward the death mechanism. He paused and looked up at the Cuban. “If I remove your handcuffs, are you gonna help me?”
“What are you going to do with him?” The Cuban asked.
Adam stood the man up and removed his prisoner’s restraints. “The same thing I was going to do to you. I’m going to put his head in that contraption, chop it off, and throw his body into the channel for it to be swept into the ocean. He’ll wash up on Smather’s Beach, same as you would have. Victim of a shark attack.”
The Cuban rubbed his wrists and surveyed the situation. “Wouldn’t it be easier to take a chunk out of the side? That would look more like a shark attack.”
“Agreed. However, I’m sure there’s no way you would’ve allowed us to simply place you in that contraption so we could take a chunk out of your side, so we’d already rejected the most realistic option. Besides, we have to remove the evidence of the bullet wound. Also, this will play better with the media. Can’t you just see the headline? where’s the head?”
The Cuban laughed. “You understand your culture better than I thought.”
The prisoner grabbed the dead man’s ankles, and he and Adam carefully made their way down the two steps and positioned the man’s head inside the iron jaws.
Adam looked at his new partner in crime. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“I don’t mind if I do,” said the Cuban. As he approached the machinery he seemed at a loss.
“You release the hydraulic pressure with this lever,” Adam said, pointing to a long iron bar that wouldn’t have been out of place in Frankenstein’s lab.
The Cuban grabbed the control and, without hesitation, released the jaws that crashed together.
Inside the chamber, the sound was deafening. The blood splatter was more than Adam anticipated. It sprayed both men’s pants below the knees. The head, its oblong shape and uneven weight distribution, rolled crazily at the men’s feet like a Mexican jumping bean.
“I’ll take care of that,” Adam said.
“What do you want from me?” the Cuban asked.
“Nothing, other than to never see you again,” Adam replied as he pushed Norton’s body into the subterranean canal by rolling it over with his right foot.
The Cuban nodded and turned away. He double-timed it up the stairs, through the door, and into the darkness.
Adam tried to grab the severed head by its short, gelled, spiky hair. He could not get a good grip and dropped the head twice before finally grabbing it by an ear. He placed it in the cloth hood that once covered the Cuban’s head and wiped his hand on his slacks.
Quickly, the aged assassin climbed the stairs and exited the mausoleum. His first stop was at the rear of the car where he placed the head in the trunk. Adam moved back to the crypt and secured it by tapping out the pattern on the stones once again.
Only after he’d slid behind the wheel of the car did the gravity of his actions fully soak into his consciousness. He faced the most uncertain future he’d ever known. Conscious anxiety extended to his granddaughter’s life as well.
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