UNADEP II (Chapters 1-5)

  Chapter One: Match and Hits

      Match woke to the blare of his alarm clock. He reached out his left hand to silence the device, his eyes still shut in unresolved fatigue. His hand went through the space, now empty, typically filled by his alarm clock, and his eyes flicked open in immediate awareness. Something was wrong, very wrong, and years of service had taught Match just what could happen if things were wrong. 

      A masked figure stood at the foot of the bed, holding the beeping electronic in one hand and in the other...    

      "Oh God," Match moaned, silently wishing his handgun wasn't locked in a dresser several feet away. Then his eyes shut tightly and Match slept.

* * *

      St. Anne's Cemetery was haunted. That is, the young oppressors who lived in the surrounding city loved to frighten any visitors into believing so. At this point, three of these teenagers were gathered around the sleeping body of an unshaven man. He was huddled near a headstone, presumably six feet over the body, which was the current topic of discussion among these young pranksters.

      "What does the tomb say?" asked the tallest boy. "Just a name," replied the shortest of the three. "James Metchings."

      "He looks tough. Maybe they were army buds," said the third, repetitively poking the man with a long stick.

      "Can't be, Mauren." The tallest delinquent pointed at the headstone. "There'd be some kind of symbol or inscription if he died in combat."

      "You know, Jackson, you're right," replied Mauren, then, quite impulsively, brought the stick across the man's backside. The effect was unexpected. Mauren had pulled this stunt before, but the three were always out of sight before the mourner turned around. In this case, the man was up and had one hand around Mauren's collar by the time the other two were five feet away.

      The newly-awoken man was now lifting Mauren up by his collar, his free hand grasping a handgun, leaving Mauren one twitch of a finger away from a third eye. "Jackson. Cameron," called Mauren feebly. His eyes were too fixed on the weapon still directed at his forehead to see that his two accomplices had vanished.

      "Who are you?" The man's voice was deep and very rough. After a moment of Mauren's fearful silence the man dropped Mauren and walked away. Christopher Robert Hitschan brushed his suit, never once pausing to look back at the teenager he had left trembling in the dirt. He checked his watch, then sighed as he saw the motionless hands.

      At the muffled ring of a telephone, Hitschan reached into his pocket and pulled out a cellular phone, opened it and said, "Hits." A monologue followed, unheard by all except this man. His only reply was, "I'll be there in an hour."

      He walked over to his car, a small black vehicle with an international plate. He opened the door and stepped into the car. The interior of the vehicle was far more complex than its exterior. The steering column was the only conventional part, also black, the wheel in a leather cover. Five pedals rested near the floor of the driver's side. A 12" LCD was position between the steering and the glove compartment, framed with a myriad of labeled buttons, including "GPS," "Radar," and "Video Call." The back of the vehicle was like a portable prison. Each seat belt comprised of two over-the shoulder straps and one horizontal belt. A small indent in the backrest allowed for a person's hands to be comfortably positioned into the handcuffs built into the seat. Hitschan tapped the ignition code into a number pad on the center console, pulled out a microchip key, and started up the car. He pressed the pedal, second from the right, and leisurely accelerated, boarded the highway, and drove to his destination.

      St. Anne’s Cemetery was almost in the center of Manhattan, which meant that Hits had to face heavy traffic to commute. However, years of driving in the city had taught him how to commute quite efficiently. He turned once, then again, drove for about two blocks and pulled into the driveway of a tall and rather luxurious apartment complex. He pulled his car under an awning, and stepped out.

      Walking over to the door, he pulled out a key and unlocked the door. The lobby was empty, save for three elevators and the small security station. The guard glanced briefly from his periodical to say, "Hello, Mr. Hitschan." 

      "Hits, Gerald. Hits," Hitschan corrected, but the guard only smiled.

      "Mail for you, sir." His eyes remained fixed on the newspaper, but his left hand motioned to a heap of envelopes lying on the desk. Hitschan stretched out his hand and grabbed the mail. He walked over to the elevator, and rode it up to the 12^th floor, thinking about what the guard had said. Christopher Roberts Hitschan had ceased using his full name the first day of his job. Even as he glanced at the pile of mail, the majority of the bills and letters read "Hits." He stepped out of the elevator and up to an apartment door, marked 1204. He pulled out another key and entered.

      The apartment was small and plain. The main room consisted of a small refrigerator, a few cupboards, a microwave, stove, and table with one chair. There was also a small desk in one corner with several papers and a laptop computer. The bedroom was even simpler.

      One bed, one dresser, a closet, and an alarm clock, still blinking the time from the last power failure. Hits now entered the last room of the flat.

      It was a typical bathroom, save the mirror. A small patch of the mirror still reflected, but the rest was covered in small photographs, all featuring the same man. Many of the photographs also had Hits, standing next to the strange man. Hits plucked one picture of the mirror, captioned at the bottom. "James Metchings: 1962-2005."

      "Jesus, Match. Why the hell'd you have to die?" Hits drew a razor from a drawer under the sink, and shaved. Every now and then he would cut himself, and the blood would mingle with the tears that were running down his face. Finally, he collected himself, finished shaving, and showered. Dropping his clothes off in a hamper, he went to his bedroom and pulled out clothing from his dresser and closet. Dressed in a crisp suit and tie, he left the bedroom, put his laptop in a briefcase, and left the apartment.

            Hits cruised along the city roads, crossing slowly into the southeast end of Manhattan. He stopped once to pick up a bagel and coffee, then drove on.

      Finally, just shy of an hour after the unnamed caller from the cemetery, Hits pulled his car into the international grounds where the United Nations building stands.

      Hits navigated his car into one of several spots marked, “Reserved: UNADEP II.” Hits exited the vehicle and gave the security guard a nod as he walked through the automatic doors.

      A gray-haired man stood in the lobby, waiting patiently among a throng of scurrying suits and ties. Next to him, a younger man stood, looking around amazedly.

      “You’re early,” stated the gray-haired man coolly.

      “What’s going on, Rex?” Hits asked, gazing skeptically at Rex’s companion.

      “So professional as always. Never the conversationalist,” Rex said smiling. “How are you doing this morning?

      Hits stretched out his left hand, brushing back his dark hair. “I’m fine, Rex. Who’s this?”

      “Richard Anthony Roccini. New guy.” Hits scowled, but Rex ignored it. “Show him around. Hits nodded, reluctantly.

      Richard Anthony Roccini forward, offered his hand, and proclaimed, “Call me Rock.” His tone was confident but somewhat arrogant.

      Hits ignored it. He then replied, “I’m gonna call you Dick.” Rex laughed. Hits didn’t. “Let’s go,” he said, and Hits turned and walked away, leaving Roccini to follow at a distance.

      Hits opened and entered an elevator. Roccini slipped in just as the doors closed. “Did they give you one of these?” Hits asked, holding a thin rod about six inches long. Roccini nodded, procuring a similar object from his shirt pocket. Hits pointed one end of the rod at the ceiling, and pressed the other end with his thumb. The end of the rod pointed at the ceiling flipped over, revealing a sort of bulb that spread an eerie light across the ceiling.

      “Ultraviolet light, causes fluorescent material to glow.” Hits directed the rod towards another part of the compartment, and a keypad glowed blue in the UV rays. Hits typed a quick sequence of numbers into the virtual pad with his left hand, and a loud beep followed. The light of the keyboard faded away, and Hits directed the light to another wall. The outline of a hand glowed on the wall, and Hits placed his hand in the outline. Several seconds later, another beep sounded, and the outline faded back into the wall. Hits glared at Roccini, who was now smoothing his hair in the reflective metal of the elevator’s wall. Hits pulled out a laser pointer, and with careful aim, bounced a beam off the wall and into Roccini’s eyes.

      “Pay attention, Dick. This is important,” Hits said after re-aiming the beam. Roccini grunted, holding his eye in temporary blindness.

      Hits turned his attention back to the light, which he directed towards the doors of the lift. Roman numerals I through X now appeared, inscribed in bright blue rings. Hits pressed II, and the elevator began to descend. Moments later, the bell rung and the doors opened.

      Roccini’s jaw dropped open, his hand over the injured eye, and his other fixed on the revealed room. “Welcome, Dick, to UNADEP II.”

Chapter Two: Explanations

      The elevator doors had opened to reveal a spectacular hall, 50 feet wide and at least a hundred yards long.

      Every few feet on either side of this cavernous passageway were many plain doors, a simple silver knob, and a name inscribed in gold lettering. Many of the hundreds of doors were left open, and as Hits and Roccini walked by, members of these rooms would glance over and greet Hits. Towards the end of the hall, Hits stopped at a closed door marked with his abbreviated name, and entered.

      The office was as personal and decorated as the apartment had been plain. Another large amount of wallspace had been dedicated to the photographs of the man who resided all over Hits’ mirror. A few more photographs featured just Hits, including a graduation picture, and a picture of Hits, dressed in a marine uniform.

      Hundreds of newspaper clippings were taped up as well, but none of the monochromatic photographs showed Hits or his mysterious friend.

      Hits tapped a switch, and speakers came to life, spreading ambient tones throughout the workspace.

      “Let’s talk, Dick.” Hits looked at Roccini. Roccini stood a good half-foot over Hits, and was much bulkier. His brown hair, shaved almost bald, did not have the gray flecks that were starting to pop up in Hits’ black hair. “The United Nations was founded in 1945, after World War II and the A-Bomb drop, when leaders of powerful nations came to the realization that warfare could eventually become advanced enough to destroy the world. Five of the most influential countries hold the seats of the Security Council; The United States of America, The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the People’s Republic of China, the Russian Federation, and the French Republic. Common knowledge, for the most part.” Hits took a deep breath before continuing, “However, what most people don’t know is that in 1972 a very wealthy private citizen of Italy succeeded in developing a nuclear weapon. Having obtained the knowledge of how to construct such a weapon, he began constructing a second. He went nearly bankrupt in paying for its construction, but nonetheless he succeeded.” Hits gave a half-grin at Roccini’s dropped jaw.

      “He sent threats to the U.N. Always very hard to trace, so they never found him. According to his messages, He took the nuclear weapons to London and Paris, two of the most populated regions in Europe. Depending on how powerful the nuclear weapons were, they could’ve killed over 15,000,000 people. He claimed that they were capable of that, and demanded 1.5 Million Lira per person to not set off the bombs.

      “Conversion comes out to an approximate total of $36 Billion. The Greater London Region had about 7.5 Million people at the time, and Great Britain had a good standing in international affairs. They gathered $18 Billion from taxes and foreign contributions astonishingly quickly. The French Government was having slightly less luck. They finally got it, but they plunged into a bit of a deficit. And this was of course, all confidential. French Economists went nuts, started accusing the President and Prime Minister of losing billions of dollars quite suddenly and, from the eyes of the people, without reason. But, the catastrophe had been avoided.

      “Very few people ever heard this story. The executive leaders of France and England, the executive leaders of the countries that contributed, and the U.N.’s general assembly and Security Council. The U.N. came to its second realization: that not only government-funded warfare, but also independent citizens and organizations were capable of doing tremendous damage to the world. And so, UNADEP II was founded. The United Nations Department of Intelligence and Investigation. Or, for those who aren’t classified to know, it’s the United Nations Department Number Two, as the ‘roman numerals’ suggest. It is our job, and now yours, to deal with non-government based threats, including terrorism, crime, espionage, and more. Essentially, we are the world’s FBI, CIA, and police, all at once. You and I, along with four other groups, are field agents. We shed our names, and replace them for security reasons.

      “You have applied for this job, and been accepted. You are no longer Richard Anthony Roccini, you are no longer an American citizen, you may not vote in any democratic election, you are no longer the son of Lorenzo and Emily Roccini, brother of Louis Edward Roccini, and you no longer rent an apartment in Brooklyn. You are an Ambassador to the United Nations from the World; you have diplomatic immunity, a car and place of residence provided to you by the United Nations. You carry a specifically-issued cell phone with you at all times, you work whenever you are called in, and when you are not working, you are free to go anywhere, do anything, as long as you keep your occupation secret. You survive and entertain yourself with an account card that provides you access to unlimited funds. If it is found that you are abusing these funds, particularly in illegal behavior, you will be reassigned to a much less enviable position in the U.N. and given a very limited account card. You work in five year increments, either renewing or retiring from the position after every five years. If you work over 15 years here, once you retire, you are given a pension account with the equivalent of about $3 Million dollars. When or if you retire before death, you are given back the status of citizenship, and your diplomatic immunity is revoked. Your pension account replaces your unlimited expense account.

      “This account continues post mortem, if you choose to pass it down to anyone. In the event that you choose to be married during your career here at UNADEP II, you must be married on international grounds and any clergy and or public official that presides the ceremony must be approved by the U.N. If you marry, either during your career here or after, in the event that you tell your spouse any details of UNADEP II, they must sign the standard non-disclosure confidentiality agreement which you have already signed. You may also choose to withhold this information, in which case nothing needs to be signed. 

      “If you will follow me, I will show you your office which contains all the things you will ever need for your work here.” This very long, very confusing explanation had left the previously-named Roccini in a daze. He stood up and followed Hits, looking quite baffled. They reached another room, not yet marked, and entered. “This is your office. On your desk is a briefcase containing a Notebook Computer, your cell phone, your account card, and the keys to your fully customized vehicle, International License Plate UND2RR. You have the ability to speed, run red lights, and you have a siren built in, with a removable flashing red light, currently sitting in your glove compartment.” Hits stopped as he saw the new employee attempt words.

      Finally the younger man smiled. “What kinda car is it?” he asked, a somewhat blank grin on his face.

      Hits half-returned the friendly face. “It’s not a commercial vehicle, and won’t be legal on U.S. streets for another few years. The top speed of the car is about 185 miles per hour, but, we’ve pumped it up a bit,” replied Hits. “Just remember, when you’re driving, use the second pedal from the right for gas, and the middle pedal for brake.” There’s three other pedals, you don’t want to use them just yet.”

      “Why, what do they do?” was the next question, but to this, Hits only smiled.

      “Moving on. In that closet there you have a few more necessities. Kevlar Body Armor, M-16 Full Automatic Assault Rifle. Those two things you can leave here, for emergencies, but there’s also a holster with two 9 millimeters and a back up single-action revolver. We recommend you carry those around with you.” Hits retrieved the holster from the closet, and held it up. He pointed to a small badge pinned to the strap of the holster. “Last but not least, your badge. Keep that on you. From now on, you are, by your own request, UNADEP II Agent Rock. That’s about it. We realize that this is a lot to take in, so you won’t be called in for at least 24 hours. This,” Hits said, handing the new agent a post-it note stuck to a small package, “is the address and keys to your new apartment. Your items have been moved, I suggest going and getting settled. Goodbye.” And with that, Hits walked out of the office.

      UNADEP II Agent Rock stood there, looking confused. He held the holster with three guns and a badge in his right hand, his left hand resting on the desk where, as Hits had said, all the things he would ever need for his work were sitting. He removed his jacket, and after he had strapped on the holster, replaced it. He was just about to sit in the comfortable chair positioned behind the desk, when he caught sight of a woman, older than Rock but younger than Hits, nailing what Rock presumed to be his name to the door. She finished, and walked into the room.

      “Hey there, new guy. Sharon Elisabeth, Technological Consultant and Provider of the Department. In simplified terms, if this were James Bond, I’d be Q. Gadgets, Inventions, and Technological Quality Control.” Rock noticed immediately and with no small amount of relief that not all the employees of UNADEP II were as solemn as Hits. “However, in relation to you as a new employee, I’m in charge of keeping you safe. Take a seat,” she said, taking a seat in the chair in front of the desk as Rock sat in the one behind it.

      “See, Hits is a very temperamental person. You’ve probably already noticed that.” Rock nodded. “Hits has been working here for almost 20 years. For 16 years of that, he had the same partner. James Metchings, Match. You’ve probably seen some pictures of him in Hits’ office. The two of them were our best agents. They booked all the worst terrorists and international threats you’ve never heard of. 16 years, not one press leak, not one failed mission. The first two years of Hits’ career here was with another partner, and the last two years have been with no partner. Because two years ago, Match died. No body, no murder weapon, no witnesses, no suspects. A decent percentage of the small number of agents who die during their career are murdered, but usually it’s a firefight. But we don’t even know how Match died. A drop of blood on his bed, and a hole burned through the sheets. Might’ve been murder, might’ve been some freak accident. The only reason we even know he’s dead because he had a pulse link with headquarters.” She paused at Rock’s puzzled expression. When field agents go on firefights, they insert a pulse monitor so that headquarters can tell if something’s happened to you. About two weeks before he died, Match requested that he have a pulse link inserted full time.

      “We weren’t all that surprised,” Sharon stated. “Match had been working here for much longer than Hits. Match joined in 1982, when the department was still growing, and it wasn’t uncommon for the agents to show signs of paranoia after working here for such a long time. Hits, however, interpreted the request for the pulse link differently.”

      Rock breathed in comprehension. “He thought Match knew he was in danger,” he said, and Sharon nodded. “So when, Match died, Hits was sure it was murder.”

      “Right,” Sharon replied. “But what could we do? No evidence, no leads, no chance at finding a murderer, but that never satisfied Hits.”

      “Didn’t the department investigate what Match had been working on last?”

      Sharon laughed. “Did you notice how Hits has two laptops? One he leaves here, and the other he brings with him everywhere, in that briefcase. That’s not his, it’s Match’s.” Sharon paused and shook her head. “Like I said, paranoia. Hits has been putting in most of his free time into getting past the security on that computer.”

      “But wouldn’t you –” Rock started, but Sharon interrupted. “Be more capable of getting past security than Hits? Yeah, of course. And I tried, but Jesus, I have no idea how to get past all the precautions he put in place. I gave up, but the security just egged Hits on. He figured that he must have put in the security for a reason. So, logically, unlocking that computer is the secret to Match’s death, and also the secret to something quite dangerous.”

      There was a long moment’s pause, in which both Sharon and Rock looked very pensively into space. “Anyway, the point is,” Sharon resumed, “Normally, I just tell new agents to stay away from Hits. Obviously, I can’t quite do that, as you’re his partner. They wanted someone good for the job, so you should be honored, but also very wary. Stay away from the Match topic, and don’t rub it in that you’re his partner. There’s nothing else, so I would suggest that you go home now, and if we need you, we’ll call you at least 24 hours from now.”

      Sharon walked out of the office, and Rock, after he gathered the tokens of his new career, followed.

Chapter Three: A Switch

      Rock pressed the unlock button of the remote to his new car. He saw the lights of the black vehicle flash once, then go dull again. Rock walked over to the small car, unoriginal in the sea of other UN-issued vehicles, the nearest of which exactly identical, its license reading UND2CH. He hopped into the vehicle, twisted the key, and jumped as a cool female voice sounded through the interior.

      “Welcome to the Advanced Technology of the RolfCo Onboard Computer System. Please enter your choice of ignition code, choice of musical genres, and climate control preferences. Feel free to attach your cell phone to access the speakers wired through the vehicle, and to use the voice-controlled call system. Also, you may enter any addresses that you use commonly for the GPS system, or you may simply enter your current destination.”

      Rock looked at the simulated face of the woman staring at him from the LCD screen. He tried to shift from park to drive, but was again interrupted by the voice. “If you would like to give this information at a later time, please state clearly, “Personalize later.”

      His face showed the obvious aggravation, but he complied. “Personalize later.” Then the woman’s face disappeared to show a map of the surrounding city. This time Rock was successful in shifting into gear and he exited the international grounds of the United Nations to reenter the world that knew nothing of terrorist who threatened the world’s existence. Rock drew out the sticky note of the building that was to be his home. “West Park Flats, 74^th street and Central Park West, room 1204,” said Rock to himself, but someone else heard. The computer’s GPS system flicked on outlining the route from his current location to the apartment.

      “Turn left ahead.” Rock sighed, and executed the turn. He continued on, following the directions of the obnoxiously plain voice of the computer. Finally he came to a tall and rather luxurious apartment building and parked under an awning, ignoring the voice of the computer, declaring the obvious, saying that he had arrived. He used the key Hits had given him to open the outer door, and entered a small lobby, consisting only of three elevators and a security station.

      The guard rose, and came towards to greet him. “Hello, welcome to the West Park  
Flats apartment building. If I am not mistaken, Mr. Hitschan sent you over, correct? My name is Gerald.”

      Rock, when he realized that the guard had unintentionally revealed an important secret, shook his hand. “Nice to meet you. Please, call me Rock,” he said and walked towards the elevator.

      Once he had entered the elevator, he again pulled out the note and read it, then pressed the number 12 on the wall, and waited as the cabin rose. Rock stepped out of the elevator, and pulled out a key as he approached room 1204.

      The door swung open, to reveal a pitch-black room. This puzzled Rock. He understood that the lights were off, but it was still early in the afternoon and there was no reason for the people who had brought his luggage and furniture from the previous apartment to have closed the windows. He reached his hand out, and found the switch. It went up, but no lights came on.

      Six years in the armed services told Rock just how bad this situation could be. He swung his muscular body away from the opening of the door, throwing his back to the wall adjacent as two bullet holes appeared in the opposite wall. The nine millimeters he had only just been issued were in his hands, safeties off, ready for action. He backed away from the door, moving down the hall, then switched one of the handguns for a small flashlight from his jacket pocket, which he then removed and replaced in its holster. He turned on the light, then began sprinting down the hall. As he reached the door he leapt, pointing both beam and gun into the opening. He pulled off three rounds as he sailed across the hall, but his real objective was quite different.

      As the flashlight had illuminated the room, Rock had caught sight of his attacker. Dressed fully in black, the man stood a ways into the apartment, between a desk and a table that Rock didn’t quite recognize. More importantly, the attacker was standing several feet away from a kitchen counter, which Rock immediately recognized as cover. One by one, Rock used the flashlight to bash in the hall lights, never taking his other arm, weapon in hand, away from the door. Finally the last of the hall lights were out. Rock repeated his previous action, running across the hall, and using the flashlight to see where the assailant was. He had not moved.

      Rock crept back towards the door. Then, he flung himself in, pressing his back tightly against the kitchen counter. In a daring move, he tossed the light into the air, beam pointed towards the assassin. He followed, drawing the second handgun as he leapt into the air and twisted towards his target. Both of his guns fired simultaneously, and they both hit simultaneously, one bullet to the gun hand, and the other to the leg. A moment later, and the gun and the attacker fell just as simultaneously as the bullets had been fired and had hit. As soon as Rock’s feet landed, he dashed towards the fallen shooter, fitting his large hand around the intruder’s neck. Rock removed the black mask, the weaponry, and after searching the dark and unfamiliar room full of furniture that Rock did not recognize, he found some rope and tied the semi-conscious man to the one chair that sat near the table.

      His hair was black and short, and the tight cap, which had covered his head with, had left his hair disheveled. His ears were pierced, and his neck was covered with intricate tattoos. Rock was no experienced agent, but he recognized the man as a skilled assassin, and the tattoos as his trophies.

      And yet, it didn’t make any sense. No assassin would kill the power, or probably even turn off the lights. They would make sure nothing seemed any different, then sneak up and shoot them while they weren’t looking, or even just stab them while they slept. So why the obvious enemy… unless…

      Hits’ cell phone rang, jittering across his desk as the phone vibrated. He picked it up, flicked it open, and answered, “Hits.”

      The deep-voiced return came through, slightly unclear with static. “Hits, this is Ander. I’m here.”

      “Good, good.” Hits glanced up at the clock that hung on the wall, then sighed as he saw the second and minute hand tick away, leaving the hour stock-still, pointing to the wrong time. “Okay, Ander. Here’s the deal. They’ve been watching my house for a while and I’m pretty sure today’s the day. They may be there already, so make sure you’ve got Wurm with you. I’m guessing that there will be two of them, one the bait and the other the hitter. The apartment will be dark, and the bait will be in front of the door to shoot as soon as it’s opened. Have Wurm open it for you while you crouch down, fire rounds into the opening. Then each of you, go in there with lights and guns and find the hitter. Try not to kill that one. Call me when it’s over.”

      Hits closed the phone and resumed his paperwork. A few moments later, the phone rang again. He picked it up again, opening it and declaring himself the same way. “Hits, there’s nobody here. We searched the whole place. The lights work, and there’s just a lot of boxes all over the place.”

      Hits was silent, thinking. Then he realized with a heavy jolt what had happened. “Rock.” He tossed the phone to the desk, still open, and bolted with a surprising speed for the age he was.

      Rock was thinking, standing over the prisoner, and wondering what to do. Slowly, and completely silently, a gloved hand, holding a small pistol, crept out of the darkness. It came two inches away from Rock’s head, then the gloved hand cocked the pistol, letting out only the ghost of a click into the room. The prisoner, hand and foot covered in blood, knowing what was coming, smiled at his salvation. The forefinger of the glove put pressure, then more, then – Hits smashed the door down, guns already drawn. Alternating between guns, Hits shot ten rounds into the darkness from where the gloved hand had come. The hitter dropped onto the ground, nine spots of blood peppering his limp body.

      Chapter Four: More Explanations

      In immediate reaction to the intruder, Rock had twisted away from his prisoner, now aiming his gun at the silhouette that had not left the threshold. He brought his hand into his pocket, withdrawing the life-saving flashlight to illuminate the mysterious guest. Holding his breath he clicked on the power, and let out a sigh, more of gratitude than relief, as he saw Hits. Then Rock’s gaze followed the barrels of Hits’ still-drawn firearms, finally finding their target. In the dark of the room Rock had not realized that there was a third person in the room even before Hits had barged in. He gasped as he saw the cocked weapon, realizing with a very sudden jolt that he had come very close to death.

      “You’re all right, then.” It was not a question, nor did it same emotional or surprised as it came out of Hits’ mouth. “Sorry about that.”

      Rock laughed. “Sorry about what? You saved my ass.” He glanced around the apartment, tracking his field of vision with his flashlight. His eyes found their way back to Hits, focused with thought and concentration. “How did you know?”

      Hits finally left the threshold, finding his way to the table, which he leaned against. He swiveled to face Rock, and glanced at him appraisingly. “Take your best guess.”

      Rock visually investigated the room. He saw only sparse furniture, none of which seemed familiar, and no boxes. “You were the target.” Hits nodded. “You knew it, and you knew that they would use two men as a trap.” Hits nodded again. “You were going to ask a team from the department take care of it because it would take back-up, and you can’t call me yet.” Rock paused and concentrated. “You had two packages, each with address and keys to get in. One for me, and one for the team. They accidentally got switched while you had them. This is your apartment.” Hits gave one final nod. Rock laughed. “The guard downstairs. He greeted me and knew that you had sent me over.”

      “Good, but that still doesn’t answer your own question,” Hits said. When Rock looked at him blankly, he added, “How did I know?”

      Rock thought, then spoke. “You gave me the address and key of your apartment, then later-” he trailed off as he saw Hits shake his head. “They called.” Rock said finally.

      “Yeah. So anyways, welcome to my apartment,” Hits laughed dryly. “This,” handing Rock a note, “is your address. I think Ander and Wurm will still be there with the key.”

      “Thanks.” Rock glanced at the now cold corpse and the prisoner, who was not as hopeful seeing his dead partner. “What are you going to do with him?”

      “When you get to your place, send over Ander and Wurm. We can handle it. You can go, I’ve got this.” Hits walked through the only interior door in the apartment, and Rock heard shuffling around as cabinets were opened and closed. Then Hits came back, a pill in his hand. “Bottom’s up,” he said, as he forced open the prisoner’s mouth, tossing the pill into the throat. Rock left, watching the assassin fumble around as the drugs took effect.

      Rock went back down the elevator, out the door, and to his car. He spoke the address again, this time intentionally receiving directions from the onboard computer. When he arrived at the building he thoroughly hoped was his home, he repeated his actions at the first complex, talking to the guard, entering the elevator, and climbing to his floor. When the elevator doors slid open, he saw two men standing in the threshold, and they turned as he walked out of the elevator.

      “Ander? Wurm?” Rock ducked as four guns were directed at him. “Calm down. Hits sent me.” Each of the two agents lowered each gun, and relaxed their grip on their other firearm, but continued to stare apprehensively at Rock. “I’m the new agent, Hits’ partner. He gave you my address and me his.”

      With this statement, the guns were not withdrawn, they were simply dropped to the floor, looks of horror on the agents’ faces. “Is he okay?” the shorter said.

      “Yeah, I took out the bait, he’s still alive, Hits came in and shot the hitter split-seconds before I would’ve died.” Sighs of relief came after that statement. “Hits wants you to help him with the prisoner and the corpse. He asked me to send you two over.”

      “Thanks. Ander by the way,” said the taller. “This is Wurm.” Wurm nodded his head, still looking relieved. The two departed on the elevator, leaving Rock to his apartment.

Chapter Five: The Next 24 Hours

      Rock’s apartment was similar to what he had seen in Hits’. One bedroom, one bathroom, and one kitchen, study, and living all rolled into one. His furniture had been supplied by the department, but his luggage had been placed on his bed. He tossed his briefcase next to his suitcase then collapsed on the small portion of bed not covered by his possessions. He woke up several hours later, looked out the window and saw the sun beginning to set. He unpacked his suitcases, placing them into their various homes around the apartment. Then he left, setting out to find food for tonight and groceries for the next few days.

      Although Richard Anthony Roccini had lived only a few miles away from Manhattan for most of his life, Rock had little idea of whereabouts of restaurants or markets on the island. Fortunately, it was difficult to go two blocks across the city without finding both. Rock walked in to the parking lot of “La Boca Feliz,” a small Mexican restaurant that was close enough to be seen through his apartment window, and next to a small grocery store.

      He entered the restaurant, sat at the counter, and placed his order. The rest of the evening continued as such, until his cell phone rang loudly just after he entered the market. He quickly walked out of the market, trying to give apologetic glances to nearby shoppers, and then realized that the flashy ring-tone could not be from his recently obtained phone, but that it had actually come from his old cell phone.

      The loss of identity hit Rock hard, and he let out a short gasp. He flicked open Richard Anthony Roccini’s phone, eager to regain some of the life he had been leading. “Hello?”

      “Hey Rick, it’s Tony. A bunch of special ops kids are in town. If you wanna come hang out, we’ll be at my place.”

      “Yeah. I might show up.” Rock said blandly.

      “Right. Well, I’ll look for you there. Bye.”

      Rock shut the phone thinking. Then he walked back to his apartment, grabbed his car keys from the table, and left.

      Richard Anthony Roccini was born in 1981, on Independence Day. His father was a second generation citizen, attorney, and local politician, while his mother, whose family had been in the United States longer, was a nurse, and spent much of Richard’s childhood working in the mobile hospital unit for Desert Storm.

      So, it was expected of the 22-year-old Richard, recently graduated, as well as Louis a few years later, to enter some branch of the military. Richard had chosen the army, and three years later came out with a strong distaste of combat, favoring law enforcement and intelligence. So for the next year he searched for jobs, working a few months as a cop, until he had received a letter from the United Nations. Although the job description was much more vague than the one Hits had given him, Rock was interested enough to hand in his two weeks notice, and show up for the interview with Rex. He was excited about the job, but not excited enough to regret leaving behind his former life as Richard.

      He pulled up to the driveway of Anthony Karbalis junior, an old friend from Army Special Operations, where Richard had spent 3 years, and glanced at the other cars in the driveway, recognizing a few. He walked up to the front door, excusing himself from two closely interlocked people, one of whom he recognized.

      The man pushed himself away from his female friend, and glanced at Rock. “Hey, Roccini. It’s good to see you, man.” He reached out his hand to Rock. “What are you doing these days?”

      Rock accepted the hand and returned the greeting, but was baffled as to explain his life status. He finally said, “I’m doing pretty well. I spent a few months in law enforcement, and these days I’m doing,” here Rock paused before coming up with a plausible occupation, “personal security.”

      “You’re a bodyguard?” the woman had finally spoken up, posing the question in a high whiny voice. Rock nodded, glancing at her. She had a silver stud in her tongue, and two small hoops in each ear.

      It struck him as odd the change the few months had made. Just a few months ago Rock and this man were in combat uniform, hair cut short, guns in hand and ready to die. Rock had retained the short hair, and tried to keep a dress code that matched the dress uniform of the army, but his friend had changed completely, including the type of company he kept. His hair was shaven all off except three strips running the length of his head, each dyed a different color.. He had an eyebrow piercing, and stunk of cigarettes and liquor. While Rock wore a plain white t-shirt and jeans, his veteran friend was shirtless, and wearing shorts that revealed several inches of his boxers.

      “I’ll see you later, Jameson.” Rock added a quick wave to Jameson’s companion, and entered the house.

      His senses were immediately barraged with disturbing information. The smoke of cigarettes, among other things, the strong taste of liquor in the air, and the odor of at least 50 people in a fairly small house mingled with a strong and heavy air freshener, but it did nothing to help. Loud music that held no appeal to Rock blared from speakers arranged around the house, too distorted by voices to make out the lyrics. And along with that, Rock couldn’t help but noticing more soldier friends, who had all seemed to disintegrate in the same distasteful manner as Jameson. Rock glanced back at the door, and was horrified to see an intentionally broken lock. They broke in for the party, Rock thought.

      His mortified thoughts were interrupted by a loud, “Heyyyy! What’s up buddy?” Tony walked up to Rock, swaying with intoxication, and leaning against a mirror image of Jameson’s girlfriend, distinguishable only by the dyed-blonde hair and clothing even scantier clothing. Tony had kept slightly more of his army appearance than Jameson with a shaved head, a dark hooded sweatshirt, and shorts much less baggy than Jameson’s had been. “This is Elizzica. You might’ve met Jessabeth if you’ve seen Roccini. Anyways. It’s good to see you, Jameson. Grab a beer, mingle. Life is good!” Tony and Elizabeth, as Rock reasoned was her name, went off giggling into a corner, collapsing into chairs and resumed drinking between giggling attacks.

      Rock grabbed a beer from a nearby table, popping the cap off with a strong hand. He chugged it down, then grabbed another. But this was not a celebrative binge. As the second and third beesr, then later shot after shot were consumed it occurred to Rock that it was, all though he was the only one who knew it, the funeral reception, mourning and commerating, the life and death of Richard Anthony Roccini.

      Rock left the party just after midnight, too drunk to find his way back home. He passed out on the hood of his car.