Setting Pace In The Desert (1)

“They’ve found him.”
“So what? He’s clean, right?”
“You know GRIM’s a professional.”
“Regardless, he still belongs to a third party.”
“It doesn’t matter, he’s clean.”
“The FBI are moving in to investigate.”
“In Saudi Arabia?”
“Doesn’t matter where, when you assassinate a prominent member of a well-to-do former DoD Team, Americans tend to notice and get a little curious.”
“Their problem. GRIM told me personally he was stripped down and executed. Double-tap to the heart. One to the brain.”
“That bastard thinks he can steal right from our system and march it out of here. He took something, I’m sure of it.”
“He was clean, Andrei, I’m telling you.”
“Did GRIM bring back anything?”
“No, GRIM’s report was certain. He stripped him down and then burned all identification after the fact. There were no electronic devices on his person.”
“Damn it. Purge the site anyways.”
“What?”
“Do it. We leave Kowalski’s body in the middle of a desert, and the Americans are coming, they’ll find something. Get a local somebody, expendable. No traces.”
“Fine, Andrei, we’ll get it done. What do you want to do about Okinawa?”
“Are Colonel Ming’s men ready?”
“Last report was yesterday. That leaves them with a 36 hour window of opportunity.”
“What about the specifics? Is he going to follow them to the letter?”
“The system was very…vivid. I gave him a copy of the predictions.”
“Good. Burn it. And make sure your man eliminates all traces of Kowalski. I’ll talk to GRIM later.”

-Excerpt from the Fox Recordings
-Dated Septemeber.23.2036
-Declassified April.25.2036

Three black SUVs cordon off the area around the body. Saudi police watch the oil workers, while the investigators circle the corpse. Agent Pace, the American kneels over the lifeless man. Ahmed coughs into a folded piece of cloth that filters his mouth and nose from the stench and filth. His dark sunglasses reflect torn flesh, punctured organs and thinning skin.

“Who was he?” Ahmed asks, lowering the cloth on his nose and mouth briefly.

Pace puts on latex gloves.

“Isaac Kowalski, British national.”

“This is the man you were hoping to find?”

“Not like this. Three entry wounds, probably nine millimeter. Two in the sternum, one in the head; millimeters apart. He was dead before the second bullet even hit.” Pace wipes sweat from his forehead. “Guy had a PHD from Oxford. For computer engineering,” Pace trails off. “What was he doing out here?”

“Getting stripped down and gutted. The workers say there was an entire flight of vultures on him this morning.”

Kowalski’s body is tall and lean, once an impressive figure. The auburn beard all ready began to match the tufts of grey in his sideburns. A rimless pair of glasses lays a few feet away, the left lens shattered. A large purple contusion graces the side of his forehead. He had been stripped down to his underwear, a single pair of boxers. In addition to the bullet wounds, carrion feeders punctured several open sores, and parts of his rib cage had become visible. A maelstrom of flies swarm the investigative team.

“What does the FBI want with a murdered British National in our Kingdom?”

“A couple months ago, my Section Chief informed me that Kowalski was once a big wig in the DoD, part of some special war games team or something,” Pace fumbles with the body’s loose ribbons of flesh. “Said he’d disappeared, which is no good because he’s privy to some important American military secrets. Gotta say, I didn’t expect to find him in the middle of a Saudi Arabian oil-field, all bled dry. But part of his DoD stint means he’s under our jurisdiction in terms of investigative materials.”

“He dies on our soil, he’s our concern too, Agent Pace.”

“Yeah,” Pace responds, “he’s pissing a lot of people off apparently.” Ahmed looks at the body. Dried blood has caked around the ragged edges of the entry points, and where the buzzards and carrion feeders had gotten to him. “They found him like this?”

Ahmed turns to look at the crowds. They’re getting rowdy, a few of the workers pushing each other.

“The night shifts claim the place was empty when they arrived. When they went to meet the morning crews they found him, like this, right here.”

Pace reaches into Kowalski’s boxers. His hands shift. Ahmed turns, uncomfortable.

“Not your cup of tea, Ahmed?” Pace smiles, looking away. He grits his teeth, pulls his hand out. He unfolds his fingers, a single blue flash drive in it. A loose strip of tape still attached to one side.

“Clever son of a bitch.”

“What is it?”

“Flash drive. He hid it in his boxers. For all the professional attributes of this kill, searching his boxers didn’t seem to come into play.”

“Let’s get it back to the station, now.”

Some of the Saudi policemen began speaking loudly with the crowd. Pace and Ahmed turn. Agent Garnett, next to the hood of the lead SUV turns to examine the scene. A few of the oil workers start banging against the chain link fences. Some exchange punches.

“What the hell…?” Pace reaches into his jacket, fingering his pistol. Garnett exposes his weapon, readying it. Garnett eyes the crowd from behind his shades.
“Get them under control,” Pace orders. Garnett steps forward. One of the workers convulses. He sprawls against the fence and vomits blood onto the nearest Saudi policemen. The worker’s eyes roll back, blood bubbling out of his mouth. He crumples to the dust, a gash exposed in the back of his neck.
“Son of a bitch…” Garnet mutters as he takes a step forward. The crowd falls apart. A man stands in the middle, a knife in one hand, a cylindrical device in his other. Pace, Ahmed, and Garnett recognize it instantly.

“Fuck!” Garnett fires. Too late. The thumb depresses the button, and the man vaporizes in a flash of light and molten skin. The air sizzles. Pace is on his back before the loud report can even be heard. Ahmed falls on top of him. Fire and shrapnel spray about the scene.

From the sky, the fireball churns and billows, shifting from red to black, as the smoke reaches up higher and higher. Garnett and the lead SUV have merged into a single craggy ruin of man and machine. The rear vehicle’s hood explodes and shoots the whole frame back ten feet, shattering all the windows and knocking the team inside unconscious. Some of the oil workers and policemen who remain conscious grip at their faces and limbs. Some try to find lost extremities in the chaos.

Pace opens his eyes. Sand and blood cloud his vision. He rolls Ahmed off. He looks at his arm, a steel needle protrudes from his bicep, bleeding through the paper-thin olive-drab t-shirt he wears. The shock holds off the pain. The cloudless sky is marred by a black spire rising towards the sun. The wave of pain hits Pace, slithering up his arm and his legs, along his spinal column, and embracing his mind.

Pace blacks out.

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