Shadow Wrought's Journal: [Serial Writing] Everywhere, Is the War (Part V)

Start from Part I or Back to Part IV

Through grimy hand-prints, countless scratches, and several unidentifieable smudges best left unmentioned, Walker examined himself in the station's bathroom mirror. Urban camoflouge, Clarke had called it, though most fashion savants would simply refer to it as an Armani. With a blue banker's shirt, striped red tie, and even a matching faux kerchief, Walker looked every bit the part of a corporate lobbyist. DC camoflouge, indeed. A minute straightening of his brass tie pin was all he could find to change though, before realizing he was suffering more from nerves than anything else.

The New Mexico desert; every bit as unforgiving as anything Iraq had, though still different, had been his home for the past four months. His fighting figure was back, and, once he got past, "the tinfoil hat issues," as Clarke had called them, he saw the world far differently. For years consipiracy theories had long held sway on a deep undercurrent of the American psyche. Like the dull ache for a flame not quite forgotten, there was something there, even if no one could quite find the name. Clarke's group had, and then they'd shown him their proof.

The shadows were not only real, they were getting longer. It wasn't the powerful elite, however, who were behind it. They were merely a distraction from the "true" powermongers, midlevel types. Those already at the top were far to busy guarding their horde, now Walker knew from whom they guarding it. It was their lieutenants and upper managers were were at the conspiracy's crux. The steered policy in their nefarious directions by gentle nudges coordinated by the instant anonimity that only the Internet could afford. Within a decade, if not mere years, they would have helped bankrupt the government through the unchecked pursuit of an invisible enemy. Then, once the Country's economic foundation was near collapse, they would jump in and "save" it, securing their place themselves as the new elite. Some even felt that they were acting as the second wave of Founding Fathers by helping the country to throw off its Yoke of Apathy.

Whether they were misguided patriots or just sociopathic power grabbers, the reality was that their plan was not only working, but that there was little that could be done about it. Uncovering the vast conspiracy required more than just credulity, it required a clean chain of command and the will to investigate under the darkest of rocks. Neither of which still existed. So to had the press become intricated with the Shadows as spin grew into a ratings necessity. Thus entered Clarke and her Merry Men. And thus entered Walker into the storied mythos of the professional assassin.

He held the reassuring weight of the Derringer in his pocket once more. It had two .38 shot shells, rigged to fire simultaneously. His target was a lobbyist for a large insurance conglomerate. The smug bastard had been pushing for far more than just the preferential rules by which his industry thrived, however. He was a Nexus, a go between, for a dozen or more other members of The Shadow, eliminating him in such an obvious manner would send ripple throughout the group like a sonar ping through a school of fish, They may not get flushed, but they sure won't be comfortable.

Leaving the bathroom he walked out to the bustling platform. A rush of air from the train was just coming through the tube when he spotted the young metrosexual at the far end of the platform. Wearing a flashy suit and even flashier knit cap, he was engrossed in the evening's paper: the sign that Walker's target was waiting for this train at the next station. With a dozen equally dressed lobbyist types, Walker boarded the train. Fighting the urge to finger the gun one last time, Walker rode out the interminable distance between stations in stony silence, a common attribute amongst the distrustful politicos dominating the train. It was time. Even before the train stopped he had his target identified and had positioned himself by the man's door.

For the next twenty minutes the train grinded on until at last they reached his target's station. The door opened and Walker emerged before his target, all the better to throw off any suspicion. The popular spot had a scor or more dark suits disgorged in a single mob. By walking just slow enough Walker was soon overtaken by his target's pushing stride. Ahead the exits diverged, straight to the North, Right to the East. His target went North. Just before the crossroads Walker pulled the derringer from his pocket and, holding it a mere inch from the nape of the man's pale neck, pulled the trigger. With his neck and spine shredded by the shot his target simply slumped and fell as Walker deftly turned right with the greater part of the crowd. The frantic shouts were just starting as he got into his Jaguar.

An couple hours later he was watching his handiwork through the lens of a newschopper from his Pennsylvania bunglalow. With the derringer properly disposed of, he composed and sent the only e-mail from this job's hotmail account to Clarke, "Now that my finger has recovered, maybe I can help you out some more..."

Continue to Part VI
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