VI
I drove away from the ICA building, out onto the dark streets that took me there. The drive was unnervingly difficult. My hands kept shaking at the wheel. My heart was beating even faster than it was when I was standing before Clera's office. I knew why. I couldn't stop it. Every drop of blood in my veins had made the transformation into pure rage. Wolfram was toying with me. And it had been his objective. Otherwise, he'd have never thought ahead to replace Clera with a stand in. That much was only apparent with her presence. Even worse, Clera was still nowhere to be found. She could be dead. She could be alive. All that mattered was that I had no way to protect my status without her help. And I had no sources to find her, and Wolfram. I had no idea what I was going to do.
Even as I walked into the first shabby hotel I saw, my mind drew a constant blank. It was as if I couldn't stay focused on anything but the things passing through and out of my sight. When I looked down to see the floor I was walking on, I couldn't see it. I couldn't perceive the colors of the walls I was passing by. I couldn't tell if the blurred spots on the floor were either roaches or part of a carpet design. Nothing was sliding into place like it should have. I needed to settle down. Take some time to rest. A few hours of sleep would have been sufficient. I had no idea how wrong I was.
It was maddening. My dreams were maddening. All I saw was white light around me. Around Wolfram, who was laughing, taunting me, taunting the assassin that had failed to kill him twice, now. Around a silhouette that was to my side, on the ground and out of focus. My mind wouldn't let me turn to see. I figured it was Clera. But it looked too large, too tall, from what I could see. Then Wolfram began to slowly slip from focus. The downed silhouette began to replace him in my sight. Then I realized it was as far from Clera as it could get. On the contrary, it was the last thing I would think of to use.
I snapped out of my sleep to a bright morning. Grabbed my laptop and sat up on the bed, going through the Agency files for about an hour. A wave of satisfaction had clashed with the rivers of fury in my veins and caused a complete balance in my body when I found what I wanted. My objective was in Montana. The key to my salvation lied there.
--
Brooklyn. It was the last place I thought I'd find myself walking down the streets of. I was a big, well dressed man carrying a big, black case, standing tall and confident under the shadows of large buildings. Crowds of people that didn't care and people within those crowds that pretended not to care were all among me. I was asking to be mugged. Every part of my body was just screaming to the nearest knife-wielding smack head to just press a knife right into my abdomen. But I had no choice. Rieper was going to be a serious problem for me, whether I liked it or not. More dangerous, more to worry about than someone willing to kill for their next fix. If you're running from the CIA, with a sullied name and up for grabs to the nearest asset the Agency has on the ground, problems like that are things you don't need. But it was different for me.
47 was a problem I was going to need if I ever wanted to go back to not worrying about a sniper taking my head off every five seconds. I'd woken up and smelt the musk of that cordite long ago. I had to beat him. It was do or don't. I refused to die by a hand I'd only just found out existed. And I confirmed that stance by stepping into an alley, just before the double doors of a shady warehouse. I knocked on them. Placed my free right hand in my pocket and waited.
"Yeah?" a faint voice said.
"The mongoose and the cobra fought vigorously, blood splashing, bone clashing," I said. "But only the mongoose walked away from the battle, and would walk from ten more."
There was a wait. Then the sounds of the heavy steel doors creaking open, inwards towards the darkness of the interior. I stepped forward into it. Then I suddenly stopped. It was the unsafe feeling you get that caused it. No, I wasn't afraid of the dark around me, but of the five rifle barrels being shoved into my face.
"That password expired two months ago, asshole," a rough voice said.
"You still let me in, you dumb son of a bitch," I said. "I think the matter of a password is irrelevant by that point. Where's Mongoose?"
"Who wants to know?" a different voice called.
"The man who plans to pay her and her crew very generously, provided that a portion of said crew gets their guns the hell out of my face."
I could feel the eyes of the gunmen cautiously looking about them, wondering if I was lying. Then they lowered their guns and clicked their safety catches on. If I hadn't brought up the subject of money, they wouldn't have done so. One had stepped forward, handing his gun to one of the others.
"Spread your arms and legs," he said.
"I'm armed," I said, complying with his command. "Bernardelli P-One Compact pistol in the shoulder holster on my left, your right. There's also a switchblade in my right pocket. The case, however, is to be untouched by any hands that are not mine or Mongoose's."
After my weapons were taken, the gunmen led me further into the warehouse, surrounding me with three men to my back and two to the front. There had been several crates surrounding us. Along with those, several men and women, all armed. Some playing cards, some drinking, some laughing, and a hefty few watching the football game I nearly slapped myself for not remembering to TiVO. We stopped in a dark room with virtually no space in it. There was a wooden table, which an ashtray, a Beretta Cougar pistol, and a pair of small arms sat atop. The person they were connected to was in the darkness. I had no need to see. I knew what the person looked like.
"I hadn't expected to see you for a long, long time, Nikita," the Mongoose said, her soft, yet commanding voice filling the room. "Or has your name changed yet again?"
"To you, Mongoose, I'm always going to be Nikita," I replied. "But as you likely don't know, I'm a victim of circumstance and require your services."
"Don't tell me your troubles, Nikita," she said, raising her voice. "We've all got problems in our lives."
"And one of yours happens to be a lack of work, which I intend to relieve you of," I said. "I want to hire you for a job. Possibly the biggest one you've ever taken."
I could feel the anxiety in Mongoose's dark eyes. With that anxiety also came doubt.
"…What is the job?" she said, softer.
"47."
The second I uttered the word, the entire room was filled with laughter. I hadn't been viewed as the businessman I had walked in as anymore. I was just another crazy Russkie-American spouting fantastic babble.
"The 47?" Mongoose said as the laughter died down. "You've become such a fool, Nikita. You want to pay us to take down an urban legend."
"I don't think he's an urban legend," I said. "The dead Director of the CIA can attest to 47's existence from his grave."
The room suddenly went silent. I felt several eyes falling upon me. The crazy Russkie just got center stage.
"I watched him stab Bristow to death," I continued. "I spoke to him over a high speed connection and told him he was going to die. I fought him at the International Contract Agency's HQ. And now, I want to kill him. And I'm willing to pay you six-million dollars, in cash to do it."
I brought up my case and set it gently on the table. Turned it towards Mongoose and opened it. She leaned forward, out of the darkness. Her long, brown hair had touched the table. Her green eyes were dead set on the money before her.
"This isn't all of it," I said. "This is just a million upfront. For the other five, I'll need to see a dead bald man in a suit."
"…And what makes you so sure you can kill him?" Mongoose said. "Even if he does exist?"
"Because I have the kind of bait it takes to flush him out."
--