Death is not Enough

By James Branigan

Revenge is mine saith the Lord. For a British Intelligence operative on holiday in the American southwest, revenge is on everyone's mind. It's the obsession of the yakuza enforcer, the motivation of the beautiful ninja, and the justification for the CIA agent. From Las Vegas Nevada, to a border town in Mexico, he was forced to examine who he was and what he had become. He came to the desert to find good food, strong drink, and plenty of golf, Instead he found love, death, danger and most of all — revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Branigan
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370335862

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Death is not Enough

JAMES branigan

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https://www.facebook.com/James.Branigan77/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, fictional persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental

Text copyright © 2017 by James Branigan

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

Cover design by James Branigan

For JoAnne who makes this all possible

Contents

Taking out the trash

When it rains it pours

Dance of the Honor Guard

Get in if you don't want to die

I like the way you think

A favor returned

Death is not enough

Welcome to the house of my sun

A very literal subconscious

Count me in

How about you drop the knife and pour me a drink?

She becomes part of the package

I'll be back in a minute

State of the art spook house

You didn't make him promise shit

Well I have good news and bad news

In the wind

Full force of the blow

There wasn't anyone waiting

Actually, just the opposite

Ready, Steady, Go!

Suddenly, I'm feeling exceptionally lucky

Acknowledgments

Taking out the trash.

The worst thing about being an assassin is the kill. Don't get me wrong, all the planning and logistics are fascinating, but like the name wet work implies... It's messy. Someone has to do it and I'm one of those people who can and still sleep at night. Termination is a last resort but a necessary one. Some in my profession find a perverse enjoyment in what we do. I, on the other hand, derive no pleasure from it. The kill creates a moral dilemma. Oh, it's not like you ask yourself do they have a family or are they nice to their dog. You'll last six months in this line of work if you think like that. Hell if you think like that you shouldn't be in this business at all. At some point you wonder, does this person deserve to die? Do I have the right to take their life? You shouldn't care, it's not your concern. It must be done and it's my job to do it and I'm proud to say it's done well. It's the job I signed on for. I'm not particularly fond of this side of the business but hell that's why they give you the license. When I started out one of my superiors called me a blunt instrument. After a few years in this business he elevated me to the status of being a lethal weapon.

This latest job is one of the necessities I spoke about. The target is an arms dealer. Which doesn't in itself make him a problem for Her Majesty’s Secret Service. What makes him a problem is he sells weapons to radical groups that are destabilizing a friendly oil producing country. His name is Dick Boxlightner, not a bad person but someone who looks out for Dick first and to hell with everybody else. He has a dual passport for Sweden and South Africa but everyone thinks he grew up in Liverpool. Rumor has it a rich industrialist with a taste for young men plucked him out of obscurity. Dick was no fool and milked the old bastard for everything he was worth. When the old coot died of a heart attack he inhered his estate in Sweden and used the old mans contacts to set up an arms business in Africa. He himself has made the situation that makes us get involved. Dick doesn't look at the big picture he looks at the small picture. The future is not his concern his priorities are the here and now. What's important, is what is best for Dick.

Which in turn is creating problems for everyone else so he can become rich. He's made it much too difficult for Great Britain and our allies to look the other way. Which places me in this hotel room in South Africa staring down the barrel of a very advanced sniper rifle. Now, if I were being totally honest with myself, I've been pursuing this side of the business a little too much as of late. Four hits in two months and the last one didn't go well at all. I had to shoot my way out, that much collateral damage takes its toll.

Recently I lost my department superior. Her absence has left a rather large hole in my life. My new boss is a practical man and felt it best to kept myself busy . I've been busy being a garbage man. Ridding the world of the trash that needs to be taken out. I'm burnt out, and have made far too many enemies in too short of a time. I need to disappear for a while. Now, just finish up this loose end and start a much-deserved holiday. One last job and I'm removed from this business for a while. If my bloody target would play along and arrive I could get on with it. As if on cue the motorcade pulls up.

Three cars total, the front and back cars empty out even before they come to a full stop. The street is filled with thugs in sunglasses talking into their lapels looking in every direction. It appears the front car is in charge of the street and the back car is looking at the roofs and windows. I'm sitting far enough back in the room that I can't be seen from the street. The parking spaces yours truly filled with rental cars earlier this afternoon have put the target car right where I want it. My entire focus is on when Dicky pokes his head out of the car. Then I see who's heading up his security team, the infamous Franz Firkin. This nasty bloke used to head up the German anti-terrorist assault team until it was discovered he was a sadistic sociopath. When it was decided to take him off the streets he went ballistic and killed several friends of mine in German intelligence. Before he disappeared he sold years of gathered Intel to various radical organizations. He set the European anti-terrorist community back years and caused the death of countless informants. I focus the crosshairs of my rifle on his forehead. Payback for the many lives this man has destroyed is in my grasp, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here for his boss and Franz's Judgment Day will have to come some other time. He gives a hand signal and it's a go to enter the building.

Deep breath let a little air out, start to squeeze the trigger so we’re ready to go in a second. The car door opens and he's out and moving, but not moving fast enough. You have to target in the direction the subject is going. Plan for the length of time the bullet will take to reach his or her head. Body shots are never a good idea, too many subjects wear body armor these days. Before Dick clears the door his grey matter is covering Franz's shiny new sunglasses. He's not happy. I get the distinct impression his boss's demise will not reflect kindly on his ability to find future employment. His head finds itself in my crosshairs once more. No, I can't, I'm not a judge and jury. I'm a soldier and fucking Firkin is not my mission.

I get up and leave everything right where it is. With any luck an hour from now they’ll be looking for the local hit man I've set up to take the fall for this. Now comes the part where I have to get out of the country alive. Taking the stairs two at a time as I leave the apartment building I'm greeted with the deafening sound of that sing song, braying donkey siren of the local police. He pulls to an abrupt halt in front of the building and bolts from the car. I head right toward him.

Officer! Just now, as I was leaving my apartment, a gunshot came from the top of the stairwell. I think someone fired a gun up on the forth floor! In broken English he tells me to wait right there and headed toward the building. As soon as he was in the door I got into his police car which he was kind enough to leave running. Pulling away from the curb and turning up the radio filled the car with chaotic chatter. I could only make out a few words but knew enough to know most of the patrols were being mobilized. I didn't plan on being in the patrol car for long. Just long enough to get past the phalanx of policemen coming into the area. Soon the