Gifted Ch 04

Author's note: I have to apologize for the huge delay between postings, life is a bitch and always demands hers first. To make it up to you, I have given you two chapters. As always, enjoy.

MrLobo

It was well past midnight as Simon Valdez walked down the deserted sidewalk towards the two story Victorian house. The early spring cool Southern California night air allowed for him to wear a large brightly colored jacket to cover his small knapsack of tools. As he approached the hedged fence line he ducked quickly into he bushes, shedding the jacket as he went revealing that he wore all black. He stripped the knapsack free from his back, twisted it and slipped the straps back over his shoulders so the sack was against his chest.

Simon pulled on a pair of black latex gloves from the bag and a can of spray lubricant. He sprayed a little lubricant onto the hinges of the wooden gate and slowly swung it open spraying more on the hinges as it opened. During his surveillance of the house and the hours he spent inside he knew there wasn't a dog he needed to contend with. As he slipped into the large unlit yard, and slowly across the yard, he continued to watch the large second story window. At the back door Simon used a cloned smart phone to unlock the automated locks and bypass the security system. He eased into the dark house slipping the phone back into the knapsack slowly closing the door behind him. He stayed there in the dark leaning against the dark listening for any movement from deeper in the house.

From the knapsack he pulled out a mounted military grade night vision monocular and strapped it onto his head. Flipping the monocular over his eye, and activating the device, the room was bathed in an eerie green light. Then he covered his shoes with a pair of plastic booties, he was already wearing a spandex skully-style cap and his face was clean shaven so he didn't worry.

Slowly he made his way to the rear set of stairs and stepping along the edge of the stairs as he climbed to the second floor. The carpeted floor absorbed the noise from his heavy boots. He stopped at the first door he came to, the oldest daughter's room. He had been watching the house all day and knew she and the youngest daughter had left for the weekend.

At the master bedroom he sprayed a quick spray onto the hinges. Earlier in the day he had been inside doing a quick recon of the house, and found the door squeaky. Gently he pushed the door open and found the woman closest to the door. She was sleeping on her side, with her back to the door. He crept closer and found her arm was draped over her husband's shoulder.

He reached into his knapsack and withdrew two tubes; they were spring loaded pneumatic hypodermic injectors. The bed was a queen sized bed, and the couple was cuddled close together on her side of the bed, so he was able to reach both husband and wife. Using both hands he touched the carotid arteries of the sleeping couple with the tubes and depressed the plungers. Both tubes emanated a sharp hiss as the methoexital was injected into the man and woman's blood stream. Both shot up looking around wildly before the sedative took effect and they fell back asleep.

Simon stripped the night vision device from his head; he turned on a few lights and worked quickly, and retrieved the wooden chair from the living room and placed it in the center of the dining room. He carried the woman downstairs, the stripped off her night clothes, set her in the chair and using plastic cable zip ties he had placed in the garage, strapped her wrists, and elbows to the chair's arms. He then strapped her ankles and knees to the legs of the chair. Using long strips of duct tape he taped her head so that it was starting straight ahead. He shoved a balled up sock in her mouth.

He then pushed the large round table onto its side and using precut 2" x 4" boards he screwed the table so it wouldn't roll either way. He then screwed eye bolts to the underside of the table. The sedated man was taller than him and out weighed by fifty pounds, but he was able to drag the man downstairs without to much effort. He strapped the man to the table spread eagle using zip ties and tape. He blindfolded and gagged the man with tape and socks.

Using a thick blanket, and a heavy duty stapler, he covered the large window that over looked the front yard. He left the sleeping couple and went into the garage. He gathered up the tools the home owner had on hand and a few he had staged during his surveillance then took them into the dining room. He made several trips before he was satisfied with what he had. He spent several minutes arranging things so that they would be within arms reach when he needed them and wouldn't have to stop once he started.

He set up the video recorder and a digital recorder in front of the woman. When he was satisfied the Simon broke open an ammonia packet under the woman's nose. She jerked awake and immediately aware of her situation. She jerked and pulled at her hands, frantically trying to pull herself free. Tears streaked down her face and neck.

"There is no need to struggle; your bonds will not break. I can't say your skin won't," he said from behind her, in a slight accent. She jumped and tried to turn her head, but the tape held it fast.

"Now Mrs Frances Trusdale," Simon said coming around to face her. "You have information that my employer wants. We can do this easily, or I will have to resort to," he paused for the dramatic effect, "unpleasant means." He leaned over to look her eye to eye. He could see the terror in her eyes, and he relished it. He waved to the tools on the table next to her trussed up husband. Her body was wracked with sobs as she cried harder. Simon wafted the ammonia packet under her husband's nose, jerking him awake. He too desperately tried to break his bonds looking around only to see the man in black grinning at him. The husband looked at the hammers, awls, pliers, and the car battery with jumper cables attached to the terminals. He jerked and pulled harder and harder desperately trying to free himself.

"Shall we begin?"

__

Using the fob to unlock the doors, Simon dropped his knapsack and bright colored jacket onto passenger seat of the ten year old Honda as he slipped into the driver's seat. He pulled away from the curb and made his way through the side streets as the wail of sirens grew louder. Several fire engines and police cars passed by him. He slowed and pulled off to the side of the road as was customary. Even from the six or seven blocks away from the Trusdale house, he could see the reddish-orange glow of the fire.

Sighing with satisfaction, He pulled back onto the street and traveled further away. Simon had used many names over that last several years, and managed to live a completely different life for about two years. It had been a good peaceful life, but circumstances forced him to return to being what he had always been, a soldier.

After a few minutes he was traveling down Sepulveda Blvd. He pulled into the parking lot of a 24 hour Burger King where he parked next to a brand new hunter green Mercedes CLS 550.

He transferred the knapsack and the heavy jacket into the Mercedes. He tossed the Honda's keys into a trash can as his cell vibrated in his pocket, telling him that he had received a text. He retrieved the phone and with a swipe of his thumb activated the phone.

The Three want a meeting.

Valdez shivered with anticipation, failing to suppress a grin. A job for the Three meant the time was coming. He tapped out a reply, telling the sender he was en route. He looked at the time and figured with traffic, he could be there in forty minutes. He hurried back the Mercedes and made his way towards Long Beach.

It was exactly thirty seven minutes later when Valdez steered the Mercedes through the rows warehouses, stopping in front of a dilapidated building. The sign above the doors read: Trinity Holdings. The door slowly slid open as the headlights illuminated it. He guided the sedan past the doors. There was a row of other vehicles parked along the wall, he squeezed the Mercedes next to an older red Hummer.

Valdez exited the Mercedes and was met by man whose tall, lean frame was dressed in a light colored European cut suit, with a dark shirt. He proudly wore many scars on his lean hawkish face.

"Mr. Valdez," the tall man said extending his right hand. His British accent was sharp and fluid. Someone educated and of some stature, not a common street thug. "My name is Alistair Winthrop, but you may simply call me Winthrop," the man said as they shook hands. Valdez could feel the roughness of the man's hands. The scars on his face and the hands belying that this man wasn't just a figurehead, he had seen combat.

Immediately Valdez felt a connection to this man. "Simon," he said as Winthrop led him deeper into building. The walk was short, and silent ending near a narrow doorway. "A moment," Simon said as Winthrop was reaching for the door knob. Closing his eyes, Simon's clothing changed from the black sweater, trousers, and boots to pleated black slacks, black loafers, and a white collarless button shirt. He finished the ensemble with a double breasted black sport's coat. Winthrop nodded in approval and opened the door.

Simon stepped through the door, leaving the hard concrete floor, to leaf strewn ground. The trees were taller than he could see, and blotted out the sun. Winthrop led him along the small game path towards a small grass clearing. The sounds of combat were coming from the ahead. Metal rang off metal, and echoed through the trees. There were grunts of someone taking a blow.

Winthrop stopped to the side just inside the clearing. Simon stood at the end of the trail and saw two others patiently waiting. The other men were similarly dressed in expensively cut suits to cleverly conceal the bulges of their weapons.

Simon gave them a once over, as they did with him as he entered the clearing. He nodded to them as they looked him over. To his left was an Asian, and further to the right was a large black man, whose build was that of a career body builder. His light colored suit barely contained him. His hair was close cropped to his large head.

Simon stretched out with his mind. The Asian's name was Jung-ho P'ung. North Korean by birth, smuggled into South Korea when his parents were murdered for political reasons. He's been on the US terror list for the past five years. Was involved in seven embassy bombings throughout Europe and the Middle East. Jung-ho was average of height and weight, his face was plain, and could be mistaken for any eastern races.

Francois Étampes, a French ex-patriot. Served several years in the French Foreign Legion rather than spend the rest of his life in prison for several murders. Étampes looked like he could pop a man's head like a grape with his bare hands.

Simon turned his attention to the man centered in the clearing. He was wearing only a loin cloth surrounded by five armed men. Their weapons ranged from long spears to short swords. The man could pass for any of the millions of Mexicans/Mexican-American in the Los Angeles basin. But Simon knew better, the man was no man, but Ah Chuy Kak, the Mayan god of war. The men attacked the man in the center. Simon watched as the man savagely disarmed the men, breaking arms and legs. At one point the man jammed a man's short sword through his thigh all the way to the hilt, while smashing another man's face with his own mace.

Off to the side stood a tall black man dressed in animal skins, leaning against several long thin spears. His name is Maher, the Ethiopian god of war. He was cheering loudly as Ah Chuy Kak snapped one of the men's arms at the elbow while jamming his bare foot into the crotch of another.

The third was sitting on his helmet; he was dressed in a simple white tunic and leather sandals. His armor lay on ground at his feet. The armor was similar to that of the ancient Greeks. He was dragging a stone along the edge of his short sword. He was Belus, Mesopotamian god of war.

Simon stood and waited patiently. The fight lasted a few more minutes, the men tried in vain to get an advantage on the war god, only to be beaten severely. The Mayan god straightened and stretched, a broad smile on his face.

"You were right Belus, I feel exhilarated. A good fight was all I needed." The god said as he stepped over the tangle of injured bodies walking towards a table that shimmered into existence. He took a large chalice from the tabletop, and took a deep drink. He saw the four mortals standing quietly off to the side, giving the Englishman a slight nod.

"Great ones," Winthrop said.

Belus stood, jamming the sword into the soft ground. Maher simply turned his head to look at the four.

Belus spoke first, "Four years ago a girl was born to an unwed mother. The Council of Five believes that this child will be the one who unites humanity for an era of peace unheard of in human history." He held up his hand and image appeared in the palm of his hand. She was a pretty little girl, 3-4 years old, with long black hair, her chubby cheeks were dimpled. Her bright pale green eyes were a stark contrast to her caramel colored skin.

"She is unprotected and vulnerable. She must die." Ah Chuy Kak said. "Her absence will allow for the Culling."

Simon had killed many people in his life time. Some out of self-defense, some in the defense of his country and later, some for a price. Never had he killed a child. According to legend, the Culling would strip the world of the unworthy through war and strife. Ah Chuy Kak saw the hesitation in Simon's eyes. "This is what you have been groomed for. All your training, all the gifts bestowed upon you have been for this moment."

Simon nodded, "I understand." He said in unison with the other three.

"You will bring her head here on the summer solstice," Maher said. The gods began conferring with each other, laughing and carrying on. The mortals had been dismissed.

Winthrop led the group back through the rainforest into the warehouse. They stopped in a conference room where the men took seats around the small table. Winthrop stood at the head of the table.

"First, allow me to reintroduce myself," he started. "I am Alistair Winthrop, formerly of MI-6. I served many years with Her Majesty's SAS. I will be the in charge of logistics and your liaison with the Three. We have three months to carry out the assignment." A small woman entered the room, and laid a sealed manila envelope in front of each man. "In each packet, you will find the girl's dossier, and that of her mother.."

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Sawyer woke with the shrill alarm on his phone. Sighing, he sat up looking at the annoying piece of technology. He deactivated the alarm and swung his legs out of the bed and stood. He was more than surprised that the aches and pains he had learned to live with, even the ones he had before turning forty, weren't there. He squatted down and sat on his haunches. Uncle Sam had replaced parts of his knee when a mortar shell exploded near him, tearing through his leg, and sitting like that would be sending lightning bolts of pain through his leg by now. Chuckling to himself, he stood, then while standing flat footed, bent over and touched the floor with the palms of his hands. Nothing felt as if it was going to tear or stretch out of shape.

Sawyer stood, and went to the full length mirror. He was surprised to see a younger man looking back at him. It looked like he had been attacked by a rogue plastic surgeon armed with a needle of botox. The skin around his mouth had smoothed out, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eye had been erased. The long thin white line scar tissue on his neck from a lucky Panamanian knife was still present as were other scars he earned during his time in the Corps.

He stripped down naked and looked over his body. Time had been turned back at least twenty years. He had dropped almost fifty pounds; his beer gut had slimmed back down to a flat abdomen. Once again he was the sleek bundle of corded muscle and sinew. Sawyer smiled.

Going through his closet he found that nothing he had worn for the last couple of years fit properly. Spying the green duffel bag, commonly called a seabag by both the USMC and the US Navy, at the back of the closet. He pulled it free and dumped the contents on the single bed. Rooting around the camouflaged utilities, the Dress Blues, the green Service uniforms. He pulled on a pair of red nylon running shorts, and a yellow T-shirt bearing red "USMC" on the front.

Leaning against the night stand, he laid out the navy blue Dress Blues jacket on the bed. It still held his ribbons and citations. Gently he touched the gold and scarlet Gunnery Sergeant stripes on the right shoulder and the five hash marks on the left sleeve. The Corps had been his family, and he had ruined it with his guilt. He had been too caught up in his own sorrows to maintain any friendships with men he had bled with.

One man had pushed past that. While serving in Panama during a civil conflict, then Major Darnell Weatherspoon (USMCR) and his four man intelligence unit had been pinned down by snipers, with a battalion sized force bearing down on them. Sawyer's unit had been dispatched to rescue the four-man team. Sawyer and his partner, a young corporal, had snuck in during the early morning hours and single handedly took out the snipers as the rest of the unit dug in.

Then for three days, Sawyer's unit fought the battalion regulars to a standstill. During a last ditch effort to roust the Marines, the Panamanians rushed the dug in positions. It was a bloody assault, during which the fighting broke out into hand to hand combat. A determined Panamanian nearly drove his knife through Major Weatherspoon's chest, but Sawyer got in the way. Sawyer ended up with a scar, the Panamanian's skull had been crushed by Sawyer's rifle butt, and Major Weatherspoon owed a man for his life.

Sawyer mustered out of the Corps, after twenty-one years of faithful service, and drifted around for a few months. Weatherspoon, who retired as a full bird colonel, had started his own security company and tracked Sawyer down. Weatherspoon told Sawyer that he had heard about the accident, he owed him for his own life, and the least he could do was give him a job. While Sawyer was in no condition to handle personal protection, or freighter security, or a dozen other positions Weatherspoon Securities was involved in, he was able to walk around a mall.

Tired of reminiscing, Sawyer slipped on an old pair of running shoes and slipped into the apartment complex's fitness center. It was still early enough to be empty. He started the older treadmill, soon he was running at the machine's top speed, and was hardly straining himself. He kept that up for several miles, before a burning smell started to come from the machine. Laughing he slowed the machine until he stopped. He patted the control panel, "that'll do Donkey, that'll do" he said in his best Scottish brogue.

Sawyer went to the flat bench were an empty bar sat in the cradle. He added a few plates, and then threw the bar up and down without straining himself.

A quick look at the clock showed he had a few more minutes before the buses arrived and picked up the complex's children. Then the herd of prowling cougars would start showing up desperately trying to work off that winter weight, as Sawyer liked to put it. He had been avoiding several of these ladies since he moved in. He knew one in particular was looking for a father to her four hellion children.

Sawyer grabbed as many of the large plates he could find, sliding them onto the bar. Lying on the bench, he lifted the bar off the cradle. It was still too light. He pressed the bar twenty times before he heard and felt the bench groan. Sawyer eased the bar back into the cradle and sat up. He emptied the bar and hurried out of the side door as the first of the women started filing in.