"Joseph is Dead"
Day One
Emile Danko looked down at the file. The name at the top was Joseph Sullivan.
He looked up at Nathan Petrelli and asked, "Anymore information then his name and that you want him dead?"
Petrelli shook his head," That's all you need to know. He's in New York as far as we know. I want confirmation of his death by next Tuesday."
Tuesday. That gave him six days. Not much time, but do-able.
"I'll get right on it, Senator."
Twenty minutes later, Danko was in his D.C. apartment, packing his things and preparing for the short plane ride too N.Y.C. He had booked a room at a hotel and arranged for a shuttle to pick him up when he arrived. Danko hefted his bag onto his shoulder, activated the alarm, and left.
He spent most of his time on the plane searching through the old Company archives, looking for any information as to the ability of Joseph Sullivan. He guessed either the man had an ability that was too classified for his eyes or that the government had no clue what the guy could do. Danko sighed as he shut down the portable computer.
"Stupid idiots. You don't send someone into the field with this little information. Will they ever learn?"
After the laptop case was securely stowed in the overhead compartment, Emile Danko plugged in the free headphones, flipped to the music channel, and drifted off into what was likely the only sleep he would get that week.
An hour later, he awoke to the pilot announcing that they would be landing momentarily and to fasten their seat belts. Danko straightened in his seat and gripped the arms tightly. In the air, he was fine, taking off or landing, however, was a different story. His therapist attributed this to having issues putting his life in someone else's hands. Danko just said he didn't like the turbulence.
When the plane was finally on the ground, Danko grabbed his shoulder bag and hurried off the plane, trying to avoid the slow-moving crowd of passengers. He walked through the airport and found a shuttle driver waving a sight with Mr. Danko scrawled across it. He walked up to the man, a tall guy in his mid twenties, probably, showed him his I.D. and entered the backseat. Danko declined the driver's offer to put the black shoulder bag in the truck, instead putting it in the seat next to him, with a hand resting protectively on top. No one was getting his file, that was for sure.
It took a half hour to reach the Travel King Motel. It was painted a revolting green color which was peeling off the textured walls. The outside had severely cracked concrete all around and the neon sign was only half lit. It looks as bad as the on line photo, he thought. But for twenty bucks a night, it was as good as he was going to get. He stopped by the front desk, showed the manager the reservation paper he had printed out from his apartment and was handed the key to room number 106.
Danko shoved the antique silver key into the rusted lock. It clicked. He cautiously pushed open the door. When you dealt with "specials" on a daily basis, you learned to be careful. He gave the small room the once over. It had a twin bed, a nightstand, a desk, a closet and a bathroom. He set his bag down on the bed and began to unpack.
He set up his laptop computer at the oak desk and neatly hung his clothes in the closet. Danko then put his shaving kit and personnel effects in the small bathroom. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was ten past eleven at night. There was little point in beginning his search for Joseph Sullivan so he set the alarm for six a.m. and settled into the lumpy mattress.