The Milestone Protocol Ernest Dempsey (best short novels of all time .txt) 📖

profile he had in his past life, but he didn’t exactly advertise himself, either. Then again, if a hit squad was sent to take out him and Tommy, along with Magnus and Kevin, knowing the targets’ names was no surprise. Tabitha, unfortunately, was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“That’s true,” Sean quipped. “I’ve seen some of those fates. Your cliché notwithstanding, I’m going to have to ask you one more time. Who do you work for?”

The man began snickering. It was an evil sound, and one that Sean had only heard a few times from textbook sociopaths.

Sean moved the pistol slightly to the left and squeezed the trigger. The suppressor popped, and the man’s wrist splashed open. His laughter turned to agonized groans as the pistol clattered to the ground next to him. He yelled obscenities at Sean in both English and Swedish, which answered the question as to the man’s origin. It did not, however, answer Sean’s question.

Taking another menacing step forward, Sean hovered over the wounded assailant who writhed on the ground, grabbing at his shredded appendage.

“Tell me who you work for,” Sean said. “And don’t give me the runaround. I know you work for the shadow. I want to know who is at the top.”

The man shook his head. “You know nothing of the shadow,” he spat. “If you did, you’d know that none of us know who he is.”

So, it’s a he, Sean mused. That cut things in half, to just over three billion potential suspects. “You take orders from someone you don’t know? That seems like an odd kind of job.”

The assassin spewed another profanity at Sean.

“That’s not very nice.” He squeezed the trigger again, and the bullet drilled through the other wrist.

The man screamed in pain. He looked at his bloody hands and fingers as he curled into a fetal position.

“You’re never going to type again,” Sean taunted. “Not without some serious reconstruction of those wrists. Don’t make me go to the feet. I hate doing feet.” He lowered the weapon and took aim at one of the boots the kicking man wore.

“I already told you!” the wounded gunman yelled. “We don’t know who he is. No one tells us where the orders come from. They pay cash. Always cash. I swear!”

Sean noticed the man’s jaw twitching in a strange way. He narrowed his eyelids, trying to figure out what the guy was doing. For a second, Sean believed he was simply gritting his teeth in pain.

“You guys are mercenaries,” Sean insisted. “None of the mercs I know do any jobs without knowing who they’re working for. Keeps them alive in most cases. Why would you work for someone you don’t know?”

The man kept chewing at his cheek, so Sean kicked him in the groin.

The air left the man’s lungs, and he doubled over in the fastest abdominal crunch Sean had ever seen.

“Doesn’t make a ton of sense to me,” Sean said amid the moans escaping the man’s lips. “Now, how did you find out about this gig? Who hired you? Someone had to be the contact point for bringing your team here.” He motioned with his pistol around at the dead men on the rooftop. “Just tell me who the contact person is.”

“You don’t get it, cowboy,” the man said derisively. “All contact is electronic. They know everything about us. Me. You. Your friends. They know your cell number, your email, your home address. They know where that pretty little wife of yours is right now.”

“Okay, that’s just bad form,” Sean said. His finger twitched, and the leather on the man’s right foot exploded a fraction of a second after the puff from the suppressor.

More screams came from the man’s throat, this time with some additional growls of anger. The profanity was enough to make the most hardened sailor blush.

“That’s going to make soccer more difficult,” Sean teased with a glance at the wounded foot. “Ugh. I really hate doing feet.” He took his eyes away from the injury and stared at the man’s face, locking eyes when he could.

“We get emails. Text messages. The money just shows up in our accounts. Okay?”

“I thought you said they pay you in cash. Now you’re making me think you’re lying.”

Sean moved the pistol to where it loomed menacingly over the other foot.

“Yes. I mean. No, I’m not lying. They pay us directly. Into accounts they have set up for us. Then we take the cash out.”

“Mmm. I don’t know.” Sean made a show of his doubt, cocking his head to one side as if trying to surmise whether the man were being honest.

“I swear. It’s the truth.”

The guy started gnawing at his cheek again. This time, the movement was more pronounced. Only then did Sean realize what the man was trying to do.

“Stop doing that,” Sean ordered. His finger tensed on the trigger.

A low pop came from the man’s mouth.

“No!” Sean yelled and knelt close. He jerked the guy’s head to the side and tried to force him to spit, but it was too late. Within thirty seconds, the man’s body convulsed. Thick foam bubbled at his lips as he shook.

The man’s head twitched violently as the poison performed its grisly task, rapidly coursing through his system. At the last, the assassin let out a macabre howl and then fell silent. His body went limp, and his sightless blue eyes stared up into the cool early evening sky.

Sean stood up and sighed. He took his phone out of his pocket and texted Tommy.

“Meet me at Sorenson’s place.”

A minute later, he received a reply. “You okay?”

“Would I be texting if I wasn’t?”

“Good point. What about the men guarding the exits?”

Sean hadn’t forgotten about that. Then he noticed the radio on the recently deceased man’s neck.

“Not to worry. I have an idea. Just meet me there.”

19

Atlanta

Tara and Alex watched the data roll across the screen with wide-eyed amazement.

Everything they were seeing from the Quantium sample was off the charts. It displayed