2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Finn strutted confidently through the dull gray corridors of Cloverton House, the pace of his steps close to a stalk, intentionally. It was the middle of the day, and the corridors were full of support staff. Staff that stopped to glance his way, to whisper and murmur—almost all of them entirely unaware he could hear every subtle curiosity and jab they voiced, even under their breath.
Is that the Hound?
Look how broad his shoulders are!
He kind of looks like he wants to kill everyone.
Why does he try to hide his eyes? Is he looking at us?
Through the fall of his long hair, Finn was, indeed, looking at them—at the pair of women whispering near the elevators. The younger red-head straightened and touched her hair and smiled at him; the older one took a step back, not masking her flinch as his gaze passed over them.
The older one was smart. He stared steadily at the red-head until she became flustered and hurried away, gripping her hair with an unsteady hand. The wise, older woman followed in her wake, leaving him alone.
This happened a lot, and Finn preferred it this way.
To most of the support staff of Command, he was a novelty. The first successful Agent. Success brought with it a reputation, and he used it to keep everyone at arm's length.
The elevator dinged its arrival, and Finn selected sub-basement five. He had to press his thumb against a plate and tilt his head up toward the camera in the corner before the elevator descended.
He never let it show, but he hated his code name. In Cloverton House, it was associated with death and fear, but that wasn’t why he disliked it.
He disliked it because it wasn’t his name.
Finn was certain that most people who worked in Cloverton House—all working for the United States government's black ops Special Operations Covert Command, known by most merely as Command—didn’t even realize he had a real name. They certainly wouldn’t have known it. There were only half a dozen people in Command who did.
He needed to remind himself that he wasn’t the Hound. That he was more, even if he couldn’t remember the details.
So, as he did every time he rode the elevator down, he recited it to himself.
Finn Kingsley. Not the Hound.
The elevator dinged, and he let the thought go. The same gray walls greeted him as he stepped out. He suspected it was a deliberate choice, the same-ness, designed to confuse and disorient the inhabitants. He had the benefit of always knowing where he was and where the nearest alternate exit point was located. Always know a way out was a maxim he lived by.
In this case, a private elevator in the closet of the SOCC’s Director, three hundred feet ahead of him and one more level down.
Finn didn’t think he would ever need that knowledge, but it was something they had trained him to gather, just in case.
Because he was the just in case. The one sent in to clean up when things went awry.
Finn was often exceptionally busy.
He stalked down the empty corridor. This floor was far more restricted than those above ground. He came to a halt outside an unmarked door, tapped it, and let his hands fall into parade rest behind him.
“Come,” a voice called.
He stepped inside.
This office, unlike the walls of Cloverton House, featured lush decorations. A large mahogany desk, paired with a high-backed, black executive chair, dominated most of the space. A Chesterton sofa lined one wall, and a cabinet full of drinks on another. The wall behind the desk was taken up by an oversized glass enclosure featuring an enormous, coiled snake lounging beneath a heat lamp.
There was no chair for visitors. He didn’t expect any such accommodation. He clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head forward to let long hair fall over his eyes.
The man who had asked him to enter—his Handler, Michael Milford—moved around, ignoring Finn. The sounds were so acute Finn could just about picture what the Handler was doing—the faint ring of plastic as he opened a container; the soft squeak of a small rodent as he lifted by its tail; the soft thud as it landed on the glass floor of the tank; the slow slither of snake skin as the predator moved.
Finn could even picture Milford’s expression as he watched with avid interest, waiting for the predator to strike. He reminded Finn of a snake in appearance: oil-slicked black hair, a thin face with a rounded nose and pointy chin. He wore his self-appointed uniform: a crisp, tailored black suit designed to project competence.
Silence settled in the office.
It happened swiftly. A scramble of little claws against the glass—futile, since there were no exits for the rodent to take—a squeak of terror and then silence as the snake swallowed the mouse whole.
“It is the natural order of things,” the Handler said. “That the weak should perish and the strong survive. Thus, all become stronger for it.” Finn didn’t say anything. The Handler didn’t expect him to. “Something people increasingly forget.”
The Handler’s shoes marked his pace as he moved from the large tank and sat in the chair.
Finn could tell the Handler was staring at him. He kept his eyes averted; they had long ago established an equilibrium between them. Finn didn’t like to talk, and the Handler did. It should have been the perfect partnership, except Finn was certain the Handler despised him. He didn’t know why—just knew it for truth. Finn’s training suggested he should be wary of the other man, and yet his training had also taught him not to question his Handler. Ever.
Milford’s chair squeaked faintly to Finn’s sharp hearing as the Handler turned in his chair and opened a drawer. He retrieved a file and dropped it on the desk, then flipped it open with a rustle of paper, sorting through photographs with a noisy exhale.
Finn didn’t lift his eyes. He wasn’t even curious about it. The Handler would tell him. Or not.
“You have five targets,” the Handler said.
Finn lifted his head. His hair fell across his eyes, but he could still see the five photographs the Handler had laid out to face him on the edge of the desk. They all appeared of Chinese descent, some bearing distinctive tattoos that he knew marked their affiliation with the triads. They looked like killers. He should know.
Finn was one too.
“They are headquartered out of a strip joint that also services an illegal gambling den. It’s called the Imperial Silk Palace, in Chinatown, on Sixth.” The Handler added another photo. The building looked a little grimy, especially lit by a florescent sign. “You have the freedom to decide when and where to take them out. Collateral damage isn’t a factor. The only important requirement of the mission is that they are all taken out at the same time.”
Finn studied the photos in silence. He didn’t ask what they had done or why they needed to be taken out. It didn’t matter. It was a job and nothing more.
“Do you remember the rules, Hound?”
Finn nodded once.
“Good. I don’t mind if you want to blow off steam in your downtime. You are a predator. It is your right.”
Finn nodded again.
“Report any malfunction immediately. Clear?”
Finn dared to look at the Handler. Milford was the snake parents warned their innocent daughters to stay away from. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Good. Now go and don’t report back until the mission is finished.”
Finn stepped forward, sweeping the photographs into a pile and tucking them under his arm. It was time to conduct surveillance.
For three days, Finn watched the Palace from the second-floor window of a squalid apartment block. The only thing that had disturbed his surveillance was the occasional rat.
Command’s enhancements granted him the ability to function with little sleep. He had once gone four days without it, though he had sensed he was no longer as efficient in his movements. Three days was the ideal efficiency.
Finn had tailed each of the five targets from the Palace to their respective homes. They all lived within fifteen miles of each other, but that distance, paired with the mission's parameters, meant he would have to eliminate them when they were all at the Palace.
It simply required waiting until they were all in one place. Often as not, they were out running different jobs on different nights.
It was acceptable, though. He had patience, and he’d gotten to know them through the scope of his sniper rifle as he waited for the right opportunity.
Other figures also became familiar, but Finn merely noted them. The various waitresses, the strippers, the dealers, and the muscle. There were patrons who appeared to come every night. He had considered attempting to blend in as one of them to get a better lay of the land inside the building.
Considered and discarded. The Handler was right about one thing: he was a predator. He would stand out too much, and the muscle would notice him.
He preferred them to be caught off guard. It made things cleaner.
Tonight, after the Palace closed, he would sleep. Tomorrow night, if all the targets arrived, he would complete his mission and kill his targets inside the Imperial Silk Palace.