John Brodie - Out of darkness by kolofon

John Brodie- Out of darkness

THRILLER

Kolofon Forlag 2022

Foreword

Once again, I was driven out of safety. Pushed by my heart to leave the shadows and brave the dangers to tell John Brodie's story to you. For all the others are gone now, dead. In fact, only I can tell the legend. But the world has changed since then, becoming worse, rawer and more heartless. What used to be serious is now critical. What was once difficult is now impossible, and what was once dangerous has become deadly. But don't despair, don't give up because John Brodie too has become stronger, and his desire for freedom and justice more intense. He must not fall asleep now, nor doze off, because things are getting precarious and it's time for action.

But prepare for the worst. Because John Brodie's journey out of darkness will be demanding and must take place at night. It's going to be dangerous, painful and possibly his last battle.

- Gunnar Berge

Prologue

Friday 21:30 - 22:30

The grey van, a large Ford e-series, was parked next to the pavement just below the entrance to number forty-two Audubon Road, a beautiful older single-family home on the outskirts of Bethesda, Virginia. The heavy van, which had been converted into a mobile operations center, had already been parked in the deserted street for almost two hours. In the deepening evening darkness and through the heavy rains caused solely by tropical hurricane Gloria, the anonymous car initially appeared abandoned as the driver's cabin seemed empty. But despite its lonely appearance, there were still two people inside the enclosed cargo area. A man in his mid-thirties and a woman in her late twenties. They were both dressed in dark, tight-fitting clothes, and the woman wore a dark baseball cap that only partially concealed her blonde hair.

The woman sat silently and concentrated in front of a small computer console at the front, where she monitored the detached house via several color monitors. The man sat at a worktable at the very back of the control room, where he was using a soldering iron to weld some colorful wires to a small copper-foiled fiberglass plate. After the smoke drifted away, the man lifted the parts up to the light and studied the connections for a long time, before assembling everything in a small plastic box that he placed in a metal-

reinforced instrument case, identical to the ones doctors often use on emergency calls.

The man then retrieved three rectangular packages from one of the wall cabinets and peeled off the packaging along with the comprehensive leaflet. He spent a few minutes studying the extensive documentation, which among other things confirmed in detail that the soft packaging contained exactly four hundred grams of an RDX-based explosive labelled PE-4.

Shortly afterwards, he threw both the packaging and the instructions into a wastepaper basket, before using a flexible plastic band to attach a small wireless signal receiver together with a micro-relay to the explosive charge. He then carefully pressed a short electronic cap into the sticky mass. Finally, he glued a nine-volt battery to the top of the package, but deliberately failed to connect any of the wires. The man then successively repeated the same procedure with the two identical explosive charges, before carefully placing the bombs in the medical kit.

For the two people inside the car, the preparations were complete, now all that remained was a little waiting before the actual operation could begin.

As the clock passed ten o'clock, they both stood up almost synchronously from their workstations. The man pulled on a dark baseball cap, lifted the medical bag and stood to the side of the exit. He waited patiently while the woman entered the pin code that activated the electric sliding door, and they were able to leave the car.

Outside, the storm had possibly worsened, the violent gusts of wind shook the heavy car while the torrential rain had long since turned the streets and pavements into small, rushing rivers. Despite all this, the couple barely noticed the ongoing storm when they got out of the car and closed the door. They hurried up the street and quickly made their way across the evergreen lawn to number forty-two. They eventually stood in the shade, sheltered by the lush and sprawling ornamental shrubs that lined the courtyard and most of the driveway. The couple stood under the dense hedge for several minutes, listening for sounds from inside the house and letting their eyes adjust to the darkness.

As if on an invisible signal, without anything being said between them, they quickly walked down to the paved courtyard and lined up on either side of a plum-red Dodge Neon sedan of older vintage. The car was parked just in front of a detached garage and less than twenty meters to the side of the front door of the villa. The man quickly unlocked the driver's door and carefully placed the suitcase he had brought with him in the back seat and sat down in the driver's seat. He then leaned over the center console and pulled open the passenger door so that the woman could also get in.

The division of tasks between the two seemed to have been carefully agreed, because here too there was no communication between them as they worked inside the cramped compartment. With the exception of a small torch, the work was carried out without any form of artificial light, with only the glaring glare of some

windswept lamps in the courtyard making a small contribution.

The man pulled one of the prefabricated explosive charges from the suitcase, placed it carefully on the center console, and then retrieved a small, cylindrical tempered glass container from an insulated pocket in the same suitcase. The gentle handling of the transparent tube only served to emphasize the dangerous and unstable nature of its contents. But the careful handling was undoubtedly necessary, since the test tube contained exactly three and a half centimeters of the highly flammable liquid Chlorine Trifluoride.

With an extremely corrosive capacity as well as creating fire temperatures of well over two thousand degrees centigrade, Chlorine Trifluoride is perhaps the most flammable and toxic chemical substance ever produced. An ignition of the alloy with the chemical designation ClF3 would immediately produce flammable gases that would normally be impossible to extinguish using conventional methods. In addition, such a fire would produce toxic gases that would ruthlessly kill all life within a radius of five to ten meters, depending on wind conditions.

Since the combination of the explosive and the liquid alloy was normally unknown to civilian fire investigators, neither crime scene investigators nor forensic scientists would ever be able to determine the cause of the explosion or the subsequent chemical fire.

The man carefully attached the small container to the top of the explosives before connecting the colored wires in a

familiar pattern. Only on one occasion did he stop for a split second. Breathing deeply into his lungs, he efficiently connected the small nine-volt battery to the explosives via the wireless signal sensor. Finally, he slipped the pack under the driver's seat and attached it to the chassis.

Just a few minutes later, the woman placed an identical charge under the passenger seat where she herself was sitting, before they jointly dismantled the faded roof covering and glued the last charge to one of the steel profiles in the roof structure.

The job was almost complete when the man removed the plastic box from the suitcase and crawled cat-like under the flimsy steering wheel, with the small torch between his teeth. After dismantling the thin plastic cover of the steering column, he searched for two wires that he cut and connected to the electronics box. The three plastic bombs were now directly connected to the car's starter mechanism.

As a final check of the connections, he pulled a digital measuring instrument out of his suitcase and attached the measuring pins to two soldering points inside the plastic box. The reading of the instrument also seemed satisfactory, as the man nodded faintly and without mimicry mostly to himself as he packed the instrument away. But the woman in the passenger seat was also pleased with the small non-verbal reaction.

When the man was back in the driver's seat, he extended a clenched fist to the woman, who responded in kind. The brief physical reaction was the only form of communication between them since they left the van.

Finally, they gathered up tools and other waste, left the old Dodge and went back to the van the way they came in. The whole complicated operation had then taken about half an hour.

Just a few minutes later, the heavy grey van rolled down the street and turned onto the main road, disappearing into the foggy night.

1. Transformation

If anyone had taken the trouble to follow Carlos Fernandes from birth through his childhood and adolescence, they would have said with the utmost conviction that the boy had all the characteristics to become one of society's big losers. Despite the fact that the majority of social research, statistics and professional experience supported such a theory, in Carlos Fernandes' case it turned out to be completely wrong. What the researchers and analysts failed to anticipate was the boy's almost superior intelligence, along with personal survival traits. These traits were part of a genetic and generous gift package that was undoubtedly inherited from the boy's deceased Cuban father.

Against all odds and contrary to the professional community, the boy managed to compensate for the economic and social conditions that are normally lacking when you grow up poor and orphaned in one of the city's worst slums. It had not been an easy journey. From an extremely difficult upbringing down in the docks of New Orleans, Fernandes had systematically robbed, fought and killed his way up through the labyrinthine and shadowy alleys at the back of society. His violent behavior did not stop as he grew older; it continued even after Fernandes enlisted as a soldier in the US military. The US Marines were also the perfect arena for the boy's brutal and disruptive lifestyle. A lifestyle that permanently bordered on serious criminality. Despite repeated reprimands,

disciplinary action and demotions, Carlos Fernandes still managed to fight his way to the rank of corporal in the Marine Corps. The department that was considered by many to be the world's best - and most legendary - military unit.

"Maybe not much of a career, but at least I got away from the headless fools down on the floor," Fernandes said as he hung slightly drunk over the bar in the NCO mess. His joy as a petty officer didn't last long, because less than a year after his promotion, his life as a leader in the US Marines came to an abrupt end. After being named as the perpetrator in a new case of violence, the newly promoted corporal was promptly thrown out headlong by a unanimous military tribunal.

After the verdict, young Fernandes could have ended up back in the slums down in Louisiana, but this is where the US Navy showed generosity. To make up for his active service, he was instead offered a twelve-month course in military intelligence, but with an express requirement to pass the exam. Behind this generous offer was most likely the hope that he would fail, which would give the navy the legitimacy to finally dismiss him in disgrace.

But for Carlos Fernandes, the involuntary reassignment turned out to be the start of a new life, a different life, a better life. Still, it was as if Fernandes steadfastly refused to bow to the gloomy predictions of the political scientists and mathematicians about his life. Contrary to the intentions of the personnel department, the young Cuban now emerged as the best in his class. The Navy therefore

decided to keep the rebel, but instead gave him a trainee position in the Navy's intelligence department and sent him directly to Camp Lejeune just outside the city of Jacksonville, in the state of North Carolina.

From here, things progressed relatively quickly for Fernandes. After spending two years in a musty basement collecting and filing useless intelligence information, the cadet was again promoted to corporal and transferred to a new department.

This was a section that worked exclusively with field-related work, which in reality meant tracking down and arresting deserters from the American defense forces. The abstract existence without control or supervision from superiors again suited Fernandes perfectly. Here, no one was allowed to bully the former marine anymore. Nor did anyone dare to refer to him as a "degos" or "dirty Cuban" - those days were definitely over. In case it became necessary, Fernandes was now able to sort things out with just about anyone, without any legal consequences.

He loved the job, loved finding the hopeful deserters, loved it even more when the tasks became difficult and when the unfortunate fugitives tried to hide. He could be amused when an intense manhunt for a stubborn and desperate person lasted for weeks. If there was a record for tracking down and arresting deserters, Fernandes would undoubtedly beat it by a wide margin.

The wholehearted efforts, along with the sensational results, were eventually picked up by the anonymous intelligence officers on the top floor of the administration building down in Norfolk. New plans were

made, cunning and secret plans that would change the life of the still ambitious headhunter.

The intelligence service's next move also materialized in practice just a few months later. The actual manifestation came on a hot summer's day when the hardworking corporal disappeared in connection with a mission outside the city of Phoenix, Arizona. The short and hectic, yet somewhat superficial search was, as expected, fruitless. Young Fernandes had simply disappeared and was officially declared dead just two weeks after the strange disappearance.

Another three weeks later, the missing person reappeared in the flesh, but now with a new identity and partly new appearance. The new passport no longer read Carlos Fernandes, but rather George Morris. What's more, the reborn corporal had once again been relocated, this time locked up in a nameless and top-secret military facility, a bizarre combination of mental hospital and advanced research center. The clinic, which specially trained future field agents for the US military, was also well hidden, located anonymously in a heavily guarded wooded area just a few miles north of the capital.

Over the next two years, Morris was forced to undergo a mental and physical rehabilitation program, referred to only as Neuropsychological System Adaptation by the initiated few. The dubious treatment program in this case was based on an extreme and rather radical doctrine developed by the CIA in the seventies, where the underlying intent was full behavioral control over the human mind, while the main goal was to create a small but

physically and mentally superior force of human killer robots. Perhaps the most frightening aspect of the hypothesis was that it undoubtedly worked in practice.

Central to the doctrine's basic concept was biochemical behavioral programming of the users, with the aim of creating a complete and lasting personality transformation. To achieve the best results, this human programmed change was always carried out in close combination with an almost inhuman physical training program.

In plain language, all this meant a medical brainwashing, a mental and physical rebirth for the agents involved. Among other things, this almost modern form of reincarnation helped to dramatically increase physical performance, as well as stimulate the cognitive functions of the brain to increased performance. For those of the users who survived the two years of suffering, it was not uncommon to see a three- to fourfold increase in both intellectual performance and physical capacity.

Unfortunately, the treatment, which was not reversible, had several secondary side effects. Among other things, users usually developed an incurable and paranoid mindset, while their empathetic and emotional abilities were reduced, often to almost zero. All of this made the users unsuitable for personal relationships such as friendships or relationships!

The treatment program now transformed George Morris, along with a select few men and women, into intelligent but highly unscrupulous killing machines. These were chemically programmed human missiles that only exceptionally missed their target. All this made the

agents well suited to specialized military missions and, if necessary, extreme suicide operations.

After the treatments were over, Morris was allowed to continue doing what he did best - tracking people down, but no longer to bring them back to prison. The primary goal of the missions was now exclusively liquidation, or removing the enemies of society, as it was so nicely called. Over these months, George Morris had been transformed into a remote-controlled puppet, a trained and obedient killer placed in the hands of a group of cynical power brokers somewhere deep inside the Pentagon building.

Now, almost fifteen years later, George Morris is still working for the same department. Despite major cultural and societal changes, increasing age, as well as a plethora of new and advanced technology, Morris still managed to adapt to the changes in such a way that he was still considered perhaps one of the best, or perhaps the most effective.

The blue roadside sign was adorned with a single green oak leaf and proclaimed in large white letters that the next town was Warren in the state of Vermont. George Morris held the shabby road map under the headlight of the Honda and squinted with hurt and red-rimmed eyes at the tiny cursive writing. This was just another one of those small, insignificant and almost isolated villages that lay like a

continuous string of pearls northwards along Interstate Highway I91. Morris was hunting as usual that morning, an intense and deadly manhunt that had so far been fruitless. The search had started in the far north of the neighboring state of Massachusetts three weeks earlier and continued across the border to the state of Vermont, where he worked his way systematically and patiently further north-east. Although the mission so far had lasted a relatively long time, this meant little. Climatic challenges, territorial adjustments or general adversity had no practical significance for the agent. He could easily continue like this until the job was done, no matter how long it took.

George Morris put the map back, picked up a napkin from a large wrapper and gently wiped his sore nose. The sumptuous and aromatic tissue was liberally sprinkled with a soothing and fragrant balm, which, according to an eager pharmacist, was a healing serum that would hopefully stop the growing cold before he got really sick. Morris knew full well that the wet and freezing autumn climate up here in the northern states was not good for his health. This was exacerbated by the fact that he only stayed in cheap hospices, icy boarding houses where it was difficult to keep warm. Aside from this, the hotel standard was of no interest to him, because the most important thing for the headhunter was that such places were never equipped with CCTV or other technical devices that could identify him. In addition, the staff cared little about who the guests were or why they were renting a room. Worst of all, however, were his constantly wet clothes, which

never dried properly in the damp and cold climate. Only rarely did he manage to dry his trousers and thin summer jacket, nor had his expensive designer shoes in nubuck leather been properly dry since the job started.

Sitting behind the plastic steering wheel of his old Honda, tired and cold, he sometimes longed to return to his New York apartment, dreaming of tasty dinners at Benjamin's Steakhouse, topped off with ice cream and cream coffee in front of the fireplace in the lounge. Despite the length of the search and the pounds that were falling off, Morris still managed to banish the negative thoughts. Because, as usual, the manhunt was always given top priority in George Morris' life.

He picked up another piece of paper from the passenger seat, this time a photograph, held it under the cabin light and studied it for a long time. The crisp color photo, taken just outside the Secret Service headquarters in the capital, showed a smiling man in a dark suit jacket and white shirt. Morris again repressed the momentary and icy irritation that for a moment was allowed to rage through his body. For this was the man he had been chasing so ruthlessly for the past few weeks.

George Morris rarely allowed himself to let personal considerations get in the way of his assignments, but in this case it was sometimes hard not to. Some days, like right now, the harsh climate seemed to seep into the Honda, dampening his grey mane of hair before the clammy film finally settled as a matte transparent coating on the instruments and windscreen. And when the cold finally managed to creep under his clothes, his sinuses

ached, his airways constricted and his body temperature was out of control. Yes, sitting like that, hungry, wet and occasionally freezing and sweating, he allowed himself the enormous luxury of actually being able to hate the smiling person in the photo both deeply and sincerely.

But George Morris knew himself, knew the symptoms, because he knew only too well that the small personal commitment was just another warning. A new reminder that told of an incipient physical exhaustion, a brutal briefing that he desperately needed a break. Morris still clung to his own conviction that the dark reflections were due to the onset of a cold, that he was about to become really feverish.

He almost clung to this feverish explanation and at the same time frantically tried to drive away the alternative causes such as poor health and increasing age! This, together with the well-hidden awareness that the scowling psychologists inside the Ministry of Defence's gloomy administration building in the Pentagon could still be right. Right in that the recurring depressive mood was just another warning that the inherent mental deficiencies would soon take over mental control and begin to eat him up from the inside and eventually drive him mad.

Morris shook his head lightly at the thoughts, it was just an innocent cold virus, such things were just normal. After this assignment, however, he wanted to take a long break, take a leave of absence to perhaps spend a whole month on the beach in Barbados, or maybe play poker at a luxury casino in Las Vegas for a few weeks or as long as his small fortune allowed.

But in the short term, the small town of Warren a mile ahead would be the most important thing right now and just another opportunity, another chance to win. He looked impatiently at his wristwatch which showed eleven o'clock, it was still early in the day, with a little efficient work he would be able to check out the little town well before dark.

Even though the chances of finding a human being in this area initially seemed difficult, if not impossible, he still felt that the hunt was coming to an end. The ageing assassin was certainly not a person who allowed himself to be guided by his own feelings or any other form of spiritual inspiration for that matter, but lately he had felt it more and more strongly, something had definitely changed. Especially in the last two days, he had felt a growing and fervent conviction that he was approaching the victim. It was as if he could smell the prey up ahead somewhere, could sense the marvelous whiff of fresh blood close by.

2. Target

The young shop assistant who was packing the goods was, as usual, immaculately dressed and lined up at the end of the counter. He now glanced suspiciously but mostly confusedly at the older, grey-haired male customer next to him. The youth then reluctantly shifted his gaze back to the face in the sharp color photo that the stranger held up in front of him.

"Are you sure, Jonathan? Never seen him before?" Although the direct, slightly rough voice sounded commanding in a way, a faint silky and ingratiating undertone managed to put a small, almost insignificant pressure on his name. The barely audible change in tone personalized the question, deliberately trying to create a commitment, a bond of trust. The demanding voice was coupled with two piercing and hypnotically staring eyes that mentally nailed the boy to the floor. It was as if the manipulative gaze demanded submission, a positive affirmation, that they only required an honest answer.

The frightening expression on the clerk's face made Jonathan Carlton turn away. He felt anew the uncomfortable sensation of almost being arrested by the stranger, being ruthlessly interrogated by the innocent question. In addition, the simple request now made his arm movements spasmodic while his fingers became less sensitive as he frantically tried to fill a new shopping bag.

He felt as if a searchable military lie detector had been triggered, and he was right in the middle of the relentless sector.

"Yep, I'm sure, mister, the face is completely unfamiliar," Jonathan replied quickly without looking at the stranger. After almost half a year as a store clerk, the boy had become good at so-called pleasant small talk with customers, and now responded as usual with the handsome tone that had become a recurring signature when he packed goods. Jonathan could hear it himself, the answer this time just sounded hollow and abnormal. His voice had become cold and mechanical, while an uncontrolled swallowing reflex sent his Adam's apple frantically up and down his long, slender neck like the piston in a tuned racing engine at full speed.

The boy could feel the older man's stinging gaze on his back; it was as if the grey-haired man could see right through the thin uniform, could see the beating heart inside, could see that he was lying. He didn't dare turn back, instead continuing to pack the rest of the groceries in the grey paper bag as if nothing had happened, just hoping the bluff would be called.

Jonathan Carlton had noticed the elderly man with the thick mane of grey hair by chance when he came through the revolving door of the grocery store. He didn't know why he had noticed this particular person among the hundreds of customers who poured into the store every day. There was just something undefined and somewhat primitive about the lithe, light-footed figure that stood out

from the crowd of customers passing through the same door.

Carlton initially thought it was the light spring jacket that attracted attention. The optimistic blue color definitely didn't match the customer's age or the season, but instead stood out ostentatiously among all the dark autumn garments. Or could it possibly be the way the stranger entered the room? The purposeful, balanced body control together with the flickering brown eyes that restlessly chased through the store as if searching for something, or someone. Or perhaps it was the passionate look on the marked face. The animalistic and alert expression together with the angular grey head that was slightly tilted, as if he was listening for sounds or tasting the smells inside the airy Target store. It was as if the man collected and carefully considered all the sensory impressions before letting his inherent animal instincts choose the way forward.

The boy unconsciously followed the elderly customer's journey through the premises. He was strangely attracted by the searching figure, whose connection to a wild animal was a characteristic that stumbled upon the hunting-oriented assistant. For he could see the whole thing crystal clear, easily recognizing all the primal character traits. All he realized was that the searching appearance chasing through the room had all the hallmarks... yes, all the familiar traits that identify a hungry predator, a furious predator on a relentless hunt for food !

Just inside the front door, the stranger had stopped a security guard, tried to show the glossy color photo, but definitely chose the wrong person to ask. The lazy, plump and slightly arrogant guard barely glanced at the photo, just shook his head in annoyance and waved the greyhaired man on impatiently with an authoritative arm gesture. A little later, the man, still holding the photo, had almost physically assaulted one of the female employees in the fresh produce department. But the young and overweight woman of Mexican descent, with minimal knowledge of English, just shook her head in resignation. Even when the man switched to Spanish, she didn't seem to understand the question. In the end, she just threw her arms out to the enquiring customer in disbelief and went back to the meat counter.

But the shock for the boy came just a few minutes later, when the elderly customer stood at his counter to pay for his goods. It almost seemed as if the human predator had deliberately selected the young assistant, finding the weakest in the pack long before the well-planned attack and well before the murder itself. In the boy's creative mind, the man now resembled a reincarnated male wolf, a dominant alpha who had carefully sorted out the frailest deer. The animal with the lowest rating for survival.

Forcing himself back to reality, Jonathan Carlton reluctantly turned round and handed the two bags to the stranger, who at first only smiled slightly as he accepted the few groceries.

"Okay, great, Jonathan, or should we just call him Joe?" the older man continued as he again openly studied

the plastic name tag on the boy's apron. Carlton could hear it straight away, the man's rusty voice suddenly cold and dismissive as he continued.

"Sorry again for the intrusion, Joe, but as I'm sure you can understand, I'm just desperate to find my brother before it's too late," the older man explained as he raised the photo of the suited man before his eyes again.

Although Jonathan Carlton easily recognized the nice man in the photo, it nevertheless gave him a new touch of discomfort. There was just something fundamentally wrong with both the grey-haired customer and his questions, something dangerous and threatening that instinctively prevented the boy from telling the truth.

The young store employee's thoughts were again interrupted by the older man's rough and cold-affected voice:

"Listen, Joe, as I said, my brother is mentally ill, which means that he easily gets into trouble, so he needs to come home as soon as possible, under expert treatment. I hope you understand my problem ..., Joe?" the greyhaired man finished seriously. The boy again realized that his voice had changed, had lost its silky tone and had instead become cold and more emotionless. The brown eyes had also been transformed. The wild, vibrant expression had disappeared in a matter of seconds, replaced by two cold, lifeless marbles. The abrupt change made Carlton unconsciously take a small step back as he met the staring eyes, for the glassy gaze now sent a momentary and icy chill down his spine. It was as if the

man had already received an answer, the last and final confirmation he was waiting for.

"But feel free to give me a tip if you think of anything else, please," concluded the elderly man as he picked up the pre-packed shopping bags and strode impatiently out of the store without looking back. The young shop assistant remained motionless at the counter, just silently following the grey-haired customer with her eyes until he disappeared behind the large revolving door.

Jonathan Carlton initially felt an intense sense of relief when the strange man finally left the premises, but in the following minutes he began to feel a nagging unease, a small, cold feeling. A growing anxiety that slowly crept down his spine, before it finally turned into a biting anxiety that settled deep in his stomach somewhere.

The uncomfortable feeling followed Carlton for the rest of the evening, which manifested itself in the boy unconsciously starting to look for the man. He first tried to follow the customers who came in through the front door, and a little later he began to wander restlessly around inside the store, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

It was ten o'clock in the evening when Jonathan finally pulled off his apron with the Target chain's flashy logo emblazoned across his chest. The fiery red flash with the chain's name underneath relentlessly told the world where he worked. Even though he desperately needed the income, he still disliked the monotonous and extremely boring job. The last thing he liked was standing at the cash register when some of his friends occasionally dropped by.

He certainly didn't like the idea of them seeing him standing at the counter packing goods in his ridiculous work outfit.

Shortly afterwards, Jonathan started his old Toyota, which was parked as usual in the middle of the large square just in front of the entrance to the shopping center. Just as he turned onto the parade street in the center of Warren, he noticed someone sitting in the back seat. All he could see was a vague, shapeless, dark shadow that shouldn't normally be there. He intuitively turned his head backwards and to his horror could barely make out that there was a person sitting in the back seat. The figure was hard to spot as he was dressed in black clothes and sat behind the driver's seat. What revealed the identity of the intruder was undoubtedly the mane of grey hair that stood out against the black clothes and the dark interior of the back seat. However, the boy was certain that this was undoubtedly the elderly customer from the shop. The man had taken off his blue spring jacket and was now wearing a dark high-necked polo shirt.

"Just keep looking forwards, Joe, the last thing I want is for you to crash, so just keep going, drive carefully until I tell you." Although the hoarse, commanding voice sounded like an out-of-tune doomsday bell, the boy didn't follow the instruction. Instead, he braked sharply and, with his tyres squealing, brought the car to a halt at the kerb. He turned round backwards with an irritated gesture.

"That's the rudest thing. Get out, mister, get out of the car now!" But the stranger didn't answer right away, just smiled palely back at the driver, a grimace completely devoid of humor. Instead, the grey-haired man raised a

long, slender pistol from the seat so that Jonathan could easily see the shiny weapon in his gloved hands. The light reflections from the oncoming traffic made it glint dully in the black steel and emphasized more than anything else the bulky silencer that helped make the weapon not only extremely long, but also extremely dangerous.

Jonathan Carlton was well acquainted with firearms from childhood, since his father owned the small gun shop located just two blocks below Target. His father's natural passion for firearms and hunting had been passed on to his son in abundance.

The small glimpse from the back seat immediately sent a shudder through his body, a shudder that culminated in a slight tremor when the boy realized what kind of weapon the stranger was holding in his hand. For the man in the back seat was undoubtedly holding a twenty-two caliber Ruger SR, which was also equipped with a huge silencer. Even experts see this extra equipment as a totally unnecessary investment, since such miniature weapons hardly make any mechanical noise when fired. Nonetheless, it was the discovery of the conspicuous noise reduction that made the youngsters sweat on this chilly November evening.

Despite his relatively young age, Jonathan Carlton was well aware of who normally used this particular combination of weapon and silencer. Apart from a few enthusiasts, the Ruger was used exclusively by people associated with the darkest parts of the country's intelligence services. And when this gun found its way

into the hands of the odd customer from Target, it all became even more frightening.

Even through an incipient panic, Carlton was still able to see things more clearly. This was no ordinary assault, nor a simple robbery for profit, for this was something completely different. Without being able to see the whole situation, Jonathan Carlton only understood the simple reality ... understood that he was in deep, deep trouble, perhaps even in mortal danger. A conclusion that wasn't exactly tempered when the stranger continued:

"I suggest we go back to square one, Joe! That is to say, that you continue nicely and carefully forwards, and I'll tell you exactly where to drive and when you can stop." The voice from the back seat was oddly commanding, sensible and gentle at the same time. The concise order together with the dreadful weapon now nevertheless formulated a clear and deadly message, where the cruel conclusion only appeared unambiguous and frightening. All of this combined meant that the youth obediently followed the instructions without further protest as he once again turned the Toyota into the street and followed the traffic further westwards.

"Turn right here and drive down towards the river," the voice suddenly commanded just a minute later. Carlton slammed on the brakes, barely managed to turn the old car out of the main street and continued onto a narrow gravel road where they were immediately met by a sign labelled dead end. "Just keep going all the way down to the riverbank, you don't need to stop until you reach the car park just above the beach!" Carlton tried to decipher the rough and nasal voice from the back seat, but there were

no longer any nuances to explain why they were here, because the sentences had just become a collection of staccato commanding phrases, words totally devoid of feeling or empathy.

After several explicit instructions from the stranger, Carlton finally stopped the car at the far end of the car park, which, with the exception of an old black Honda Civic, was empty. The man leaned forward slightly so that his mouth was only a few centimeters from one of his ears.

"You're probably wondering why we're here..., Joey?" Jonathan just nodded back mechanically but felt the tears beginning to surface. "It's not a big deal, I just want you to answer some simple questions honestly. After you've told me everything you know, you'll drive me back to Target, it doesn't get any easier than this. Doesn't this sound good?" Again, Jonathan nodded slavishly in response, before asking.

"It's about the man in the photo, isn't it?" the boy asked gently, his voice choked with tears.

"That's right, Joey, you're making great progress and proving that you're not a complete idiot!" Although the voice was somewhat friendlier this time, the youngster didn't find the words of praise particularly uplifting.

"But we have to move on, take the next step, so we can put an end to this," the backseat voice had once again become low and threatening. "So, Joey ..., who is this man in the photo, do you know his identity?" The somber voice had now taken on an impatient quality, a restless tone in which the expectation of an honest answer was easily

audible. "Do you have a name, or......?" the man repeated mechanically when the boy didn't answer right away.

"I don't know his name," Carlton began cautiously, "but he shops regularly at the store, at least once a week, sometimes more often. Always pays cash but prefers to pack the goods himself."

"Okay, fine, but do you know where he lives? Does he have a house or maybe an apartment here in town?" The boy hesitated a little, but still long enough for the man in the back seat to realize.

"Listen, Joe!" interrupted the grey-haired man, sharply and reprimanding. "Believe me, I certainly don't like using threats and much less physical violence..., do you understand? But you have to tell the truth so we can get this over with, I'm not enjoying this any more than you are," the voice admonished, sounding like a confession, not unlike a confession with a Catholic priest. The staccato voice tried in a primitive way to convey a kind of sick kind of trust, but which the young boy only found further frightening.

The man raised his Ruger when he didn't get an answer, raising it just high enough for Jonathan to once again see the shiny metal in the roof mirror, making him cringe in fear.

"Okay, mister," Jonathan began cautiously, trying to find the older man in the rear-view mirror. "If you just put the gun away, I'll talk, but then you promise to let me go?" The stranger put on a surprised expression and lowered the gun, it was as if the man was mortally offended by the outrageous claim.

"Are you mad, Joe, I'd never think of hurting you, I'm not a ..., not a beast, either," the gunman finished frankly and with empathy.

"All right, I'll tell you. The man in the photo lives in a small hunting lodge up in the mountains, in a place known simply as Bear's Den. It's just a little over an hour's drive from where we're sitting." The stranger nodded slightly, leaned forwards and placed a road map together with a ballpoint pen on the passenger seat.

"Great, Joey, that wasn't so hard. Here you can tick off exactly where the cabin is." Jonathan switched on the cabin light, picked up the map and studied it for almost a full minute before finally drawing in a small blue cross.

"Here it is," said the boy, holding the map under the cone of light and pointing with his pen to a small valley far up the mountain. "The little hut is deserted, about eight hundred meters above sea level, and not far from the little lake marked Lake Ellen, which is here." The boy moved the pen slightly to the side of the blue mark.

"What about the road? Can you drive a car all the way to the house?" the older man asked.

"That's right, there's a motorway almost all the way," Carlton quickly assured us. "I've only been there once to deliver some groceries to a neighboring cottage. It was late at night, so I don't remember all the details, but the cabin is easy to find. You can drive all the way there if you want, but then you need a four-wheel drive. If you drive a normal car, it's a good idea to park down here." The boy pointed the pen to a new spot, just below the first junction. "Then it's only about a hundred meters up to the cabin."

"Anything else I should know about the man?" the older man asked, his voice once again friendly. The young man did not answer right away, as he had to think about it.

"I happen to know that he bought a hunting rifle at Carlton Hunting & Fishing several weeks ago," the boy said candidly. Feeling more secure now that he was cooperating, he knew he would soon be free. "Then I've told you everything I know, mister. Can we go back now?" The older man didn't answer right away, just thoughtfully watching the young driver through the mirror this time. He could easily see the panic in the boy's eyes, the look that demanded immediate payment of the reward, a generous settlement in the form of getting to live.

"There's just one little problem, Joey boy...," the older one began, shrugging it off. "If I let you go back ... won't you tell the police about this little conversation we had, give them a good description that will make them start looking for me?" Once again, he found the boy's face in the ceiling mirror, but this time there was a slight questioning expression on the marked face. Jonathan felt as if his heart was about to stop and was unable to prevent a couple of large tears from rolling down one cheek.

"But you promised..., promised me that I could come back, promised that I could be free," the boy was sobbing now. "You promised," he repeated quietly, as if it was a secret mantra, a code that would help him out of the situation.

"That's right," the older man began thoughtfully, "but that was the old deal, because unfortunately the rules of the game have just been slightly changed. That is to say, the practice has been modified, changed to adapt to the

situation," the man explained elaborately, but paused, as if unsure of how much he needed to share with the driver.

"But it's just a simple little change, otherwise everything is as before, if you understand?" The man quietly delivered the bizarre rhetoric as he lifted the Ruger and silently pushed the gun barrel in between the seat back and headrest. The end of the silencer was now just a few centimeters from the boy's neck. "The only small change is that I can't actually let you live!" the older man continued thoughtfully, his voice seeming a little friendly for the first time as he leaned back in his seat and held the weapon on two straight arms in front of him, holding it as he heard the boy in the driver's seat pleading for his life, begging to go home.

But then it was as if the man became bored, as if he grew tired of the repetitive and painful wailing from the driver's seat. As a grimace of resignation crossed his face, he pulled the trigger, hitting the boy in the upper part of the neck and brutally cutting off the wailing voice. The short, dry crack of the twenty-caliber weapon was almost inaudible, sounding only like a faint creaking sound inside the cramped Toyota, like a hazelnut cracking.

Even though the kinetic energy of the low-caliber ammunition was relatively small, the expanding projectile still managed to throw the young shop assistant forwards, causing him to hit his head hard against the steering wheel and fall to the ground.

When the stranger finally got out of the faded saloon and slammed the rear door shut, Jonathan Carlton was still lying lifelessly in the driver's seat, hunched over with his

head pressed against the flimsy plastic steering wheel of the frail Japanese car.

3. Winter in Vermont

Winter came late to Vermont this year, the first real snowfall in the mountain areas around Mont Ellen had been a long time coming. Even the steep ridges leading up to the summit were still only flecked with a light layer of snow, unlike the high rock formations in the Presidential Range to the east, all of which lay dazzling and white against the misty horizon. Down in the lowlands and on the wide plains, the wind had swept away the light snow for the time being, which meant that autumn was still reigning overtime.

Although the November sky over the Green Mountains was still high and bright blue this afternoon, the falling temperature together with an icy, biting breeze signaled an impending weather change. The previously low temperature had dropped further during the afternoon and had fallen to just above freezing in the last few hours. Far out on the horizon in the south-west, dark clouds were gathering to form a black wall, which in just half an hour's time would block out the setting sun. Within another hour or two, the blizzard would reach Mont Ellen to finally stretch the white sheet over the massive mountains.

John Brodie was stretched out on the small slope at the top of the narrow mountain range, watching the man through

a high-resolution telescopic sight. The lightweight and compact Leupold scope sat atop an expensive hunting rifle, a Remington Model 700 that Brodie bought at the local gun shop down in Warren just days after moving into the cabin. Although the nifty weapon was originally intended for deer hunting, it also provided extra security in the event of an unexpected visit from a two-legged friend.

Brodie was on his way home from hunting that afternoon when he noticed the two of them, the hunter and the dog, down by his humble abode. The stranger was sitting on a large stone slab just to the side of Brodie's yearold hunting lodge and of course knew nothing about the danger lurking less than a hundred meters up the slope. The hunter had made himself comfortable on a southfacing slope where he was trying to warm himself in the last pale rays of the dying afternoon sun.

In one hand, the man held a handmade coffee mug carved from a bull's root, which he occasionally sipped while greedily eating from a packed lunch. He was dressed much like Brodie, in a set of camouflage-colored hunting clothes, winter-lined and functional, but which seemed worn after years of use. On the ground next to him was a natural-colored backpack along with an ergonomically designed hunting rifle in matte-black carbon steel. The stranger was not alone, a powerful dog with thick goldenbrown fur, possibly an elkhound, wandered restlessly around the property seemingly without aim or purpose.

Undoubtedly just a hunter on his way home from a hunt, Brodie concluded with relief after observing the man for almost ten minutes. Almost as if on cue, he quickly

moved the barrel of the rifle a few millimeters up and to the side, letting the sharp contours of the reticle intersect exactly in the middle of the stranger's temple. He then waited a few long seconds before, with an exasperated expression on his face, he squeezed the Remington's light trigger, but there was only a dry click as the hammer hit the empty air inside the lockbox.

Brodie had to admit that he had a momentary flash of anger whenever strangers appeared in the vicinity of his home, because this was not an isolated incident. The unnecessary dry heave was therefore just a somewhat childish release, a physical release from the shock of finding an armed man so close to his hiding place. He remained patiently watching the two through his binoculars until the man finally packed up and chained the dog to a leash half an hour later. The couple then left the property and disappeared into the dense forest below the cabin, where they were gone for good.

John Brodie remained on the mountain shelf, savoring the sweet smells of pine needles, old quail and autumn-yellow rotting grass that hung heavily between the pine trunks. A familiar aroma that managed to evoke memories of childhood Iowa and complete the melancholic feeling of late autumn.

Brodie eventually forced himself out of the nostalgic world, instead looking up at the fierce storm that was relentlessly rolling north across the country, mesmerized by the heavy cloud systems building up on the purple horizon. At the same time as he followed the storm, a violent bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, a saw-

toothed organ of light that for a few brief seconds lit up the pitch-black and billowing storm clouds behind it. It was as if a frenzied cyclops dragged the gigantic saw blade across the pitch-black sky in a senseless, angry movement. Soon after, the furious flashes of light were replaced by a series of gigantic thunderclaps, deep thunderous detonations that raged like artillery strikes across the plains, before the tremors finally culminated and died out deep in the mountain bed beneath John Brodie.

But the storm did not come alone. Synchronized with the thunderstorm, Brodie now noticed an increasingly strong discomfort creeping in, a biting unease that seemed to crawl down his back in search of a hiding place. Without being able to understand it, it felt as if the threatening sky in the south-west was carrying an alarming message. A frightening and personalized warning that the winter storm not only brought climatic change, but also dramatic changes in his life. It was as if the ominous sensations grew in tandem with the dark clouds, creating an increasing sense of unease that left him shivering as the discomfort travelled down his back and settled like a cold claw in his diaphragm. Brodie knew from experience that it wasn't possible to dismiss or ignore the biting sensation. He knew that the growing unease would follow him around like a hungry dog for the rest of the evening.

But as usual, Brodie tried to find an academic explanation for his discomfort. At first he thought that the depressive reflections were a consequence of the fact that the very next day he would be leaving his lonely existence and leaving the state of Vermont. This would finally put an end to the miserable way of life, or internment, as he

quietly called the hermit-like condition he had been living under for the past few weeks. Or perhaps the discomfort was simply due to the change in weather with fresh snow, an extra burden that would make the car journey west even more arduous?

But it was time to go anyway, because even though there was still no snow, late autumn was still very noticeable so high up in the mountains. The days were gradually getting shorter, and the sun was warming up less, and the dropping temperature also presented several practical challenges. This was mainly because the cabin construction had to be erected by unskilled labor and also built from virtually untreated logs.

After several decades without supervision or maintenance, the timber walls had long since become dried out and cracked, and in several places were so dull that daylight seeped in between the rough logs. Over the years, only half-hearted attempts had been made to seal the widest openings with putty, but without much success. In addition, he suspected that the overgrown turf roof might also be leaking. In short, all this meant that the days, and not least the nights, were turned into freezing experiences. There was also no electricity in the cabin. The only possible source of heat besides a small portable primus was therefore a large, homemade open fireplace. This was a bulky and crude behemoth built of natural stone and solid cast iron, which took up most of one inner wall in the living area.

In the first few weeks, the fear that someone might detect the smoke from the chimney was so great that

Brodie refrained from using the fireplace. Despite this, just two weeks later, after several days of icy winds from the northeast, he finally gave up, swallowed his pride and decided to get something combustible to burn. He bought a few fathoms of dried firewood from a cozy farmer down in the valley, who graciously offered to transport the logs up the mountain. The man was a man of his word, and early one very cold morning, a large, fiery red Massey Ferguson roared through the frosty smoke and unloaded five cubic meters of dried pine firewood inside the small farmyard. With a lot of help from the farmer, the logs were soon stacked neatly along one wall in the living room.

The heated cabin immediately made life easier, and the warmth of the fireplace gave the lonely cabin dweller new energy and increased his enjoyment of life. At first, Brodie only lit the fire at night, but after a few days, mostly fueled by the biting cold, he became less restrictive and let the fireplace burn even through the coldest days.

When John Brodie finally rose from his hiding place, the sun had long since been swallowed up by the black storm clouds in the west, and the evening darkness was about to take over from the dwindling daylight. He was frozen to the bone and shivered in his light hunting suit as he climbed stiffly down the steep gully while trying to get warm. Long series of furious lightning strikes continued to ripple across the sky, while deafening peals of thunder continued to shake the bedrock beneath the lone hiker as he made his way down the rugged terrain.

Brodie didn't stop at the simple hut, just kept going, all the way down to the small car park where he checked

one last time that the homemade alarm sensor was still intact, which it was. The primitive arrangement was very much a simple device that in practice consisted only of two small metal profiles, some twigs, and a thin string stretched from the crossroads up to the back of the hunting lodge, where the end was connected to a small bell on the outside of the bedroom window.

Last night, he was also woken up by the faint ringtone. The unexpected alarm forced him to evacuate the cabin via the back door and made him run through the dense forest in pitch darkness before he painstakingly climbed up the steep mountainside. That night, he had lain up on the plateau for almost three hours, monitoring the property with night-vision goggles, but without finding any good explanation for the surprising alarm. Only when the faint morning light became visible in the eastern sky did he reluctantly go down to the car park and reactivate the sensor. He finally concluded that an animal, a raccoon or perhaps a deer could have tripped on the thin wire. Brodie was far from certain, doubting very much that his guesses were correct, but still unable to offer an alternative explanation.

The nocturnal alarm triggered by his own speculations and hypotheses also caused his adrenaline production to increase. The creative but uncontrolled thoughts only made Brodie more vigilant throughout the day and created an almost manic approach to even the smallest signs that something was wrong. He eventually became extremely critical of his own actions and constantly took new precautions, such as making sure he wasn't being watched and repeatedly checking that his

weapons were available and ready to use. Brodie also tested some primitive defense systems inside the cabin, making sure they worked in the event of an unauthorized visit.

Just before five o'clock, the first snowflakes began their seductive dance in the escalating wind out in the courtyard. A light layer of snow managed to stick to his clothes before Brodie found shelter under the covered terrace. He let himself be captivated by the wind and the increasingly dense snow showers, which quickly began to paint the autumn-colored nature in white and laid a feather-light blanket over the property, transforming his primitive home into an idyllic postcard motif in a matter of minutes. Brodie was also freezing like a dog when he slammed the worn front door a little later and sat shivering in front of the burnt-out fireplace. After a bit of a struggle, he finally managed to rake life back into the glowing charcoal before refueling with fresh pinewood. He sat in front of the open fireplace for the next few hours, willingly allowing himself to be seduced by the blazing fire that slowly drove the icy cold out of his body. He again felt the strange sensation of having become a kind of caveman, a fleeing hermit living a solitary life in the desolate mountains, far from civilization. It wasn't until the flames were dying down that he was brutally dragged back to reality and began to make a simple plan for the next few hours.

Due to the upcoming snowstorm, Brodie had set his departure for five o'clock the next day. To avoid too much

stress the next morning, he had to get the bunkhouse cleared so the car was packed and ready in time for bed. The car parked just outside was an almost new Chevrolet Silverado, a powerful four-wheel drive pickup that he had easily stolen downtown in Montpelier just two weeks earlier.

The return journey would initially take him to New York for a quick but necessary detour to Hampstead to break into his own house to pick up weapons and some clothes. After this, he would drive through the state of Pennsylvania to pick up Julia.

After the reunion, they would drive together across the country, north to the state of Montana where a modern holiday home awaited. The somewhat spectacular Montana trip would hopefully be an unexpected move that would keep their pursuers at bay for a few more months. I knew it would be a long journey, because even without delays, the trip would take at least three days.

It was almost ten o'clock when Brodie placed the last of the boxes in the boot of the snow-covered lorry and locked the waterproof tarpaulin. He crossed the courtyard and stood once again under the covered terrace, where he watched in fascination as the howling blizzard raged outside. He remained standing there even after the cold had managed to seep in behind his thick winter jacket, but when his fingers began to go numb in his rough work gloves, he stamped off the snow and pulled open the rickety front door.

But just as he was about to step through the opening, he was rudely awakened by a loud, gruff voice thundering through the howling gales.

"Stand still, John Brodie, don't move." The cold, notorious and military command language was easily recognizable and left little doubt that this was serious. His first and immediate thought was that this wasn't happening, that it must be a dream. For the shock of the hoarse voice, together with the profound realization that someone had managed to sneak in behind his back, just felt like an unreal nightmare. The simple fact that the voice out there in the snowy chaos also knew his identity made Brodie jump in the doorway.

But it eventually dawned painfully on Brodie that this was not a nocturnal dream, but rather a merciless reality, a cruel reality he could not wake up from. The first decent thought Brodie managed to produce was the realization that for once he was unarmed, he had just hung the Remington on the peg behind the passenger seat of the Chevrolet, while one of the Glock pistols was in the locked glove compartment. As if that weren't enough, the other Glock was on the bedside table in the bedroom. How could he be so careless, Brodie thought with exasperation before the gruff voice brutally dragged him back to reality.

"Raise your hands so I can see them." The voice was closer now, perhaps only two or three meters behind. Just a little later, Brodie could barely make out the strange man in his peripheral vision, when a long and shapeless shadow became visible just to his right. This confirmed that the man was still standing in the courtyard just below the terrace, and thus out of reach. Although his voice

seemed both cold and hoarse, it still seemed somehow triumphant, as if the stranger was immensely pleased to meet the cabin dweller.