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  Last Strike

  Unknown Identities #4

  Regan Black

  Getaway Reads, LLC

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Reader Note

  About the Author

  Last Strike

  Unknown Identities #4

  By Regan Black

  Published by Getaway Reads, LLC

  Copyright 2015 by Regan Black

  Cover art by Duckling Media, ducklingmedia.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the express written permission from the author.

  Chapter One

  Colfair, Iowa

  March 25, 2:45 p.m.

  Last Strike stood sentry on the sidewalk near the black sedan, heedless of the wind tugging at his long coat. Hands relaxed at his sides, eyes sheltered by dark sunglasses, he resembled the rest of the protection detail stationed around town.

  That faulty assumption would be the last mistake of any attacker who managed to get this close to the man inside the car. Being underestimated was one of the things he enjoyed about his job. It gave him one more advantage in a deck already stacked in his favor.

  “Boston in February. Yes. That is the logical explanation.”

  Last Strike heard his boss’s voice through the cracked window. He didn’t bother to speculate or put the words into context. Not his job. His boss, code name Messenger, had global interests, while he had only one: do Messenger’s bidding. At the moment, that was keeping an eye out for danger in this sleepy little town.

  Behind his sunglasses, he scanned the street for anyone showing too much interest in them.

  About now, he wished they were in Prague or Hong Kong. This small-town slice of the Midwest oozing Americana put an itch between his shoulder blades. Give him the raw honesty of urban decay any day over this grating façade of peace and contentment. To a man, the people here would weep if they knew who stood on this pristine, family-value street. He experienced a rare struggle with temptation as he imagined a violent scene, allowing none of that to show as he stood, unflinching, a consistently faultless example for the other bodyguards.

  “All of the evidence indicated they were dead,” Messenger said. Last Strike felt the chill of his boss’s gaze, but he would not cease his surveillance duty until ordered to do so.

  His world was simple and his concerns few. He followed the orders issued by the man inside this car. Always in an expensive gray suit, his boss managed Unknown Identities (UI), a covert network of uniquely skilled operatives. To be recruited was an honor extended to those men and women who were out of conventional options, usually due to poor personal choices or some horrendous failure. The UI program had several research and training facilities hidden under layers of grants, dummy corporations, and other impenetrable smokescreens.

  Last Strike’s detailed knowledge was a result of being around from what amounted to day one. As a control subject for various experiments while UI honed their techniques, he’d suffered early on, but Messenger had eventually rescued him. Only Messenger embraced the skills and personality markers the scientists and developers feared when they tagged him for termination, claiming he was too volatile to continue.

  Messenger had given him a code name and weapons and put him to good use as an elite assassin for the benefit and protection of the program. Now, a trusted asset, he had extensive access because he never spoke unless spoken to. Even within secure facilities, most people were too afraid to even say hello, fearful he’d report the exchange to his boss. It was a good life. Secure and direct, he knew where he stood at all times.

  His expression stony and his thoughts light, Last Strike continued to scan the street, not quite relieved by the lack of threats. He enjoyed the hunt and the strategy involved to efficiently dispatch a target. It had been several weeks since Messenger had tasked him with an assignment beyond personal security.

  “We followed protocol with every washout.” Though Messenger’s cultured voice betrayed no emotion, Last Strike knew this conversation was about more than successes or failures.

  Washout protocol referred to subjects who survived testing and yet managed to fail UI in other areas. Typically, they were institutionalized in private hospitals, where powerful drugs kept their resulting psychoses under control and explained away any bizarre tales of life inside the UI labs. He’d been close to that fate himself, once.

  While Messenger continued his conversation, Last Strike noticed a photographer across the street. He signaled the closest man on the perimeter and kept a sharp eye on the situation as it was resolved.

  The window rolled down. “Join me,” Messenger ordered.

  Waiting until the bodyguard at the front of the car took his place, Last Strike rounded the trunk and opened the back door, sliding into the seat next to his boss. In the dim interior of the car, he removed his sunglasses.

  “Last Strike, you told me Amelia Bennett died.”

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded. “By car explosion.”

  “I saw the pictures.” Messenger held his gaze. “And the autopsy report.”

  He waited in silence for a question to answer. Amelia Bennett was a reporter who’d come too close to exposing an important UI connection. If he’d failed on a mission of that magnitude, Messenger would’ve already had him killed.

  “Both were convincing,” Messenger continued. “The team who misplaced Bulletproof’s body was reassigned.”

  Reassigned to the bottom of the nearest ocean, most likely. He was glad he hadn’t been given those targets. They would’ve presented no challenge.

  “It’s come to my attention that Bulletproof and Bennett are alive. Possibly working together.”

  Impossible. Then again, Bulletproof had been the cream of the crop among the early UI agents. If anyone knew how to stage his own death and evade the program, it would be him.

  “A response is required, Last Strike,” Messenger said quietly.

  “Sir.” He weighed his words and the consequences carefully, wondering if the life he loved, if his tenure with the man he respected and admired had reached an end. “Any chance of her survival is too small to consider valid. The car exploded. I watched it sink in the river.” His voice felt rusty as he squeezed out the string of words.

  Messenger tapped his manicured fingertip on his knee. “Yesterday I might have agreed with you.”

  Might? Any doubt from his boss, meant the end of his life was near. He had no fear of death. It was his stock in trade. If today was his last, he’d be honored to have Messenger deal the fatal blow.

  “A woman narrowly escaped a serial killer in Boston on Valentine’s Day,” Messenger told him. “The press claims her brother came to her aid even as a Boston PD sting operation closed in.”

  Last Strike nodded, recalling the report from last month. Only a handful of people knew the killer was a UI washout and two of them were in this car. The washout had been slipping in and out of confinement to indulge his compulsion to commit grisly murders.

  “These siblings, touted as citizen-heroes, ducked the spotlight. It took some work to convince the sting operation to share the surveillance footage. Even so, the facial recognition wasn’t conclusive. However, the prevailing theory among my superiors is those ‘siblings’ were B
ulletproof and Bennett.”

  His boss hadn’t asked a question, but Last Strike understood another response was required. “You believe I failed,” he said.

  Messenger plucked a non-existent piece of lint from his slacks. “It would be the first time.”

  Once more, he waited out a long pause. He’d watched other agents sign their death warrants by anticipating Messenger. If death was his due, he’d take it. That didn’t mean he had to rush headlong into the process.

  “It would mean we were both fooled,” Messenger admitted quietly. “Which makes it all the more difficult to accept.”

  He wanted to volunteer to investigate and correct his error, though he knew from experience Messenger already had a plan of action in mind. Last Strike wasn’t an investigator or agent, he was UI classified as a Cleaner, the operative who headed off trouble and nipped any loose ends. That he had apparently left an end loose troubled him more than he cared to admit.

  “Things did not go as planned in New York over the holidays,” Messenger said.

  No. His last two assignments had met with unexpected interference. While UI had ultimately secured the man they were after, neither Last Strike nor Messenger considered those ops a success. Like his boss, he preferred things complete and final with no reason for lingering doubts.

  Those who knew his true role at Messenger’s side referred to him by one of two names. Either the Cleaner, per his classification, or End Game because when he arrived the mission was over, no more last-second chances for a win. Only Messenger called him by his given code name.

  Messenger sighed, a rare sign of frustration. “Is it possible the problems in New York were caused by Bulletproof?”

  Again he gave it some thought before offering a reply. “If he is alive,” he allowed for the possibility, “he could not have interfered without intel from inside UI.”

  “I agree.”

  Last Strike hadn’t felt panic in so long, he barely recognized the sensation. “I -”

  Messenger cut short his protest with a raised finger. “I am well aware you are not the problem.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It appeared he would live through the meeting, possibly the rest of the day. The relief was as foreign a sensation as the panic had been. He didn’t want any doubt cast on his unflagging allegiance to Messenger. He didn’t want to die with a black mark of disloyalty following him to the grave.

  “We will part ways here,” Messenger said, pulling his cell phone from the inner pocket of his suit coat. “I’m emailing a plane ticket and the details of your new target.”

  “Yes, sir.” While he wasn’t comfortable leaving Messenger’s safety to others, he never questioned orders. The sooner the target was terminated, the sooner he would be back protecting the one man who had set him free, the only person in the world who valued his skills.

  “Plug the leak with your usual efficiency,” Messenger said. “After you identify where the intel is going.”

  “Yes, sir.” He exited the car and walked down the block, around the corner and into a small, family-owned hardware store. Between aisles of paint, he reviewed the email and checked his flight information. While the destination in Maryland didn’t hold any appeal for him - even the state flag was hideous - the target certainly did. Messenger must not be entirely irritated with him, to reward him so well.

  He deleted the photo. He didn’t need any reminder of that particular face, it had been burned into his memory long ago. Back then he’d thought she was an angel hiding her wings. He’d ached to touch the silk of her golden hair and he’d found her wide, brown eyes warm behind the cold lab glasses.

  He’d never been a bigger fool. He’d soon learned the devil wore the best disguises. Despite her heavenly appearance, the bitch had proven herself a master at torture. His heart kicked in his chest. He couldn’t wait to return the favor in the process of carrying out Messenger’s orders.

  He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly and the surge of excitement with it. Messenger used him for these tasks because his precision and detachment made him a superb killer. He wasn’t ashamed that he enjoyed his work. But not even Messenger could understand just how much gratification he’d gain by ending this particular life.

  His fingers twitched against the phone in his pocket as he left the hardware store. Watching her, waiting for her to hand off UI’s secrets would only serve as anticipation and increase his eventual pleasure.

  Chapter Two

  Camville, Maryland

  March 28, 7:48 p.m.

  Dr. Daria Johannson was being followed. Or she was being paranoid.

  If a bookie asked her to choose, she’d put her money on followed. It was the safe bet and a frequent fact of her top secret research division. So really, it was no bet at all. She knew from the beginning that low-grade paranoia was a common side-effect of having guards lurking about while the team worked tirelessly to create their specific, covert advances. The better question was why she was thinking about bookies and betting when she needed to be thinking about self-defense and escape routes?

  She tugged up the collar of her coat, small relief against the brisk spring wind funneling through the parking garage. March seemed determined to go out with a lion-esque roar. Hurrying toward her car, she held her keys teeth-out between her knuckles. The tactic might be enough to buy a few seconds in an attack. Every shadow, cast by cement pillars and tucked between cars, loomed large and threatening. “Too many movies.”

  The rational side of her brain wasn’t buying it. Or was it the irrational side?

  She wasn’t sure it mattered.

  She’d survived internships, demanding years of medical school, research lab politics, and just when she thought she had it made, she discovered she’d landed on the jagged edge of an ethical dilemma. It started to cut into her immediately, with her first patient, and the wound never healed.

  She’d known she had to find a way to break free or die trying for nearly a year. She couldn’t reconcile the methods with the results any more. Rationalizing her efforts had been effective in the early days, but no longer. After that phase passed she buried her head into the project, avoiding the cold reality of her fate within the program. With no clean way out, obsessing over a future she’d never see served no valid purpose.

  She’d done her job well. Quite possibly too well, though no one in the scientific community would sing her praises unless she offered up the proof. Proof she was ashamed of even if sharing the program success wouldn’t land her in jail or an unmarked grave.

  As her heels clicked along, echoing off the cement surroundings, her mind counted her steps as accurately as a pedometer. She pressed the key fob to unlock her car. The lights didn’t flash. She frowned and tried again. The battery couldn’t be dead, she’d only had the car a few months.

  Rushing forward, her heart pounding in her chest, her knuckles went white as she pressed the key fob repeatedly right at the door. No response. She heard a sound from another row of parked cars. Footsteps? Staring at the uncooperative door, she told herself she had options. She’d tucked away some cash and stashed a bag in a locker at the bus station. She could -

  “Dr. Johannson?”

  Spinning toward the friendly voice, she tried to smile, hoping she didn’t look insane as the relief washed over her. “Dr. Gerardi. Hello.”

  Her boss had at least three decades on her and he was one of the few people who had always been generally friendly despite her positive or negative lab results. She admired his ability to focus solely on the progression of science.

  “Long day in the lab?”

  Her smile began to ease into a curve that felt more natural. “Not much longer than normal. You know how it is. I was just having trouble with my car lock.”

  He patted her shoulder. “But this isn’t your car.”

  “Pardon?” She twisted around, taking a good look at the car’s interior. It was true her compact high-efficiency sedan was a popular model and she’d purposely ordered it in the most
popular color. But that wasn’t her red coffee mug in the console and the wadded up remains of a fast food lunch certainly wasn’t hers. “I guess I am distracted.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks and raced up to the tips of her ears as she looked up and down the row for her car.

  “Don’t you typically park on level four?” he asked.

  She glanced back to the nearest sign. She was on level two. How had she managed to push the wrong button on the elevator? “Maybe the day took more of a toll that I thought,” she said. There was no way to save face. Researchers were typically accused of having no real-world common sense and she’d just reinforced the stereotype. In front of her boss. “Please, excuse me.”

  Dr. Gerardi chuckled kindly. “Happens to all of us occasionally.” He leaned close, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. “Usually just before a breakthrough.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Her most recent eureka moment hadn’t been a happy one. She inched around him, aiming for the stairwell. “Have a lovely evening.”

  “Dr. Johannson, this really is a fortunate coincidence. I’ve wanted to ask your advice on something, if you have some time?”

  Her evening plans involved booking an impromptu vacation, preferably tropical, in a country that didn’t have an extradition agreement with the United States. It was time to hand over what she knew and hope she survived the fallout. “Of course.” She couldn’t imagine what advice she could possibly offer a man with his experience and credentials, but time spent with Dr. Gerardi was always educational. “Where shall we meet?”

  “My car is right here. Let’s ride over to Della Ricci’s together.”

  She would have offered to walk the few blocks, if not for his recent knee replacement. “Oh, I can drive. It will save you coming back this way.”

  “It’s not a problem. I’m parked right here.”

  She appreciated his kindness, welcomed it after the extreme stress of recent weeks. In the privacy of his car, where she could be sure no one else was listening, she might even work up the courage to ask his thoughts on her specific problem. She wasn’t certain how to continue developing something she knew would eventually harm others and she couldn’t expect to get away with sabotaging the results much longer.