The Horseman

By B.D. Carlile

In the world of professional killers, few survive. As part of the Four Horseman of the Apocolypse, Death stands apart. Watch how he kills, with his mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B.D. Carlile
• Release date: Sep 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386640363

B.D. Carlile

B.D. lives quietly with his wife and son in rural America. This work is his second published novel, with more to come. 

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

NORTH LAS VEGAS, NEVADA: West Craig Wally World

The velvet sun washed languid down. It kissed the melting blacktop with hazy ribbons of air. Sebastian del Fuego, code-named: Death, sat in his late-model Mercedes, waiting. His prey would soon arrive. As they have, like clockwork, every other week. He had but sit in air-conditioned silence.

Squealing tires announced their arrival. The nearly new, late model pickup almost side-swiped his car. Such a repair would cost more than the truck was worth. Now I know I have to kill them. He smiled.

A portly woman, easily as tall as she was wide, kicked open the passenger door, missing his side mirror by centimeters. Strike two. He imagined. She exited the vehicle like a hairless grizzly backing out of a dumpster, wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots. One misstep would do the work for him.

He wasn't so lucky. She safely navigated to the ground, awaiting her husband. Whose lanky frame and anorexic look struck dark contrast to his wife.

Eugene! She called. Why the hell did you get such a big thing to drive?

It was the best available. He murmured.

The best you could afford, I'd say.

You're right dear. You're always right.

Of course I'm right! But do you listen? He mouthed an answer but his voice failed as she continued, "Of course you don't. You NEVER listen to ME! Oh, you'll listen to Lady Luck who continually screws you at every casino in town. But your wife, of fifteen years? NEVER."

Yes, dear.

"Don't Yes Dear me. I know what you're thinking. Don't even say it. Let's get our crap from Wally World, and then you can take me to that new steak place I heard about."

What steak place?

Scarpellos? Fellatios? Something Italian. Doesn't matter, it's expensive.

Yes...

Hurry up, I'm famished.

DEATH exited his Cedes with a flourish. His seven-foot-two frame blocked out the sun. As Bertha looked up to curse the darkness.

What the hell? She breathed.

His dark, flowing robes fluttered in its own windless breeze. Capturing her breath. His hood slid from atop his fleshless skull, the sun gleamed for the white of it. She opened her voice to scream, but empty words escaped. With a flick of his wrist, the scythe range switch-blade free. A sword escaping its scabbard. Already two cheeseburgers short of a coronary, Death fed her a five-pound bag.

She clutched her chest where the sickle pierced the skin. And fell, face first, her flesh to blacktop.

Eugene stared in rapt fascination. Not clear whether to lament or cheer. He looked up to see the face of his recently departed mother.

Geno, come home with me. Please, son, come home.

The moment his outstretched hand clasped the naked bones of Death, a look of terror filled his eyes. Unknowingly, as a zombie, he pulled out his .45 M1911 pistol and fired three shots into his slumbering wife. One in the heart and two in the head. He turned the weapon on himself and cleanly blew his brains out. Strike three, you're out. Death thought.

He shrank back into his six-foot-two frame, and walked away. So it seemed.

MOMENTS LATER, HE OPENED his eyes. His mind returned to his study, with it's oak covered walls. The supple, Italian leather sofa solid beneath him. He sat up, drank a gulp of iced tea and thought, aloud, Another psychic hit accomplished.

Within hours the payment reached his numbered Swiss account. And none were the wiser. Onlookers remarked how the thin man exited the truck, in the throes of a heated argument. That when he pulled the handgun, the woman ran screaming and he gunned her down. In a fit of remorse, he turned the weapon on himself.  Death read the paper the next day, and smiled.

FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC: Deputy Director Davis' Office

He fulfilled another contract. Lancaster announced.

Who was it this time? Director Davis sighed.

A low level bag-man for the La Vida Loca Cartel.

Davis looked at his assistant incredulously.

That's what they call themselves.

Touch of Ricky Martin syndrome, I see.

Something like that.

How do you know it's him? Davis asked.

It fits his signature. Lancaster answered.

What signature. The report read this man Smith killed his wife, then himself. He skimmed further, At Wally World. Now that's a shame. Davis replied.

I know, on Black Friday and everything. Lancaster smirked.

I meant, oranges are on sale. Showing his assistant one of the glossy photos inside the folder.

He always does one to the heart and a double tap to the head. Lancaster acknowledged.

"It's a bit old school, just like many first generation mechanics."

My gut tells me, it's him! Lancaster insisted.

Your gut, eh? Know what my gut tells me?

No. sir.

It's time for lunch. Davis pushed the button for his secretary to bring it in.

Shrewd, sir. I request permission to inform the task force. Lancaster clicked his heels to attention. Military training never leaves, much like the memory of military coffee.

Son, you aren't a fly-boy any longer, so clicking your heels is unnecessary. Unless of course you're wearing ruby slippers?

"No, sir. No ruby slippers. As for The Horseman, he's R.E.D.

Red? Davis worried.

Retired Extremely Dangerous. Lancaster smiled at his bosses ignorance.

Leave him be.

But, sir? Lancaster insisted.

Davis held up his pudgy hand, licked fried chicken grease from his fingers. One, we don't have a KILL order on him, yet. Two, he's underground, using all those evade capture skills we taught him. And, three, the Bureau can't expend resources for a man no one can precisely identify.

You forgot four, sir.

Davis' face fell sallow. His large brown eyes puppy-dog upward into his assistance face.

He's a wet work operative and can strike anyone, at anytime.

Better to stay off his radar, then.

But, sir, the task force?

Lancaster, I'm not authorizing any Effen task force!

Lancaster smiled, then freed a page from the back of the file folder. You don't have to, sir.

Davis set down the chicken legs he was two-fisting. He wiped his greasy hands and skimmed it. Effen Senator Rockwell? How the hell?

He is the Chairman of the House Appropriations Committee. Lancaster encouraged.

"That doesn't mean he can appropriate my Effen Assistant!" Davis swore.

"I went to him, sir."

What the hell!

Chagrined, Lancaster painted on a familiar smile. Sir, all you have to do is acknowledge receipt. It's all arranged.

Receipt of what? This is EYES ONLY. Apparently, mine can barely see.

It's common courtesy. Lancaster acknowledged.

So what sucker have they assigned to head this damned task force?

Lancaster gave his best opossum eating grin.

Might've known. Davis smiled, briefly. So what do you need from me, newly ordained Special Agent?

A knock came to the door, apparently timed.

Enter. Davis barked.

May I introduce Felicia Gomez, your new Assistant Director.

Davis motioned Lancaster closer and whispered in his ear, But she's a woman.

Lancaster smiled and stood straight, Don't ask, don't tell sir.

"How far does that go?" Davis pondered aloud.

I'm here to serve in any way you deem necessary. She smiled.

Davis glared at his former assistant.

Lancaster beamed, "I might have mentioned that you needed a deep cover operative."

It was Davis' turn to eat opossum.

Branson, Missouri: The Mountain Music Inn

Taking full advantage of the motel's complimentary, continental breakfast and free Wi-Fi, Death dove into his morning routine. Which consisted of Biscuits and gravy, scrambled eggs, hash-browns, sausage and coffee. Black. Alongside a gigabyte of email.

He pulled out his tablet PC, a 9.7 inch Panther Z1. Like the Mac-Pad, only better. With it he surfed the net, booked travel, and checked email. It was the usual mass of junk mail offering free Viagra, or a timeshare, of all places, in Branson. Interspersed were mechanic jobs disguised as freelance photo assignments. He was about to chuck the lot when a solitary subject line rattled his brain,

Assignment Belize: REPLY IMMEDIATELY.

HIS MIND RETURNED BRIEFLY to his wet work days in BLACK OPS. Whomever wrote the email had his full attention. It read:

Death,

Nice work of late. Have a new assignment. Top Pay. Travel required. Reply this email.

Xavier

P.S. Beware of crows

XAVIER? HE EXCLAIMED. Who the Effe is Xavier? His mental Rolodex hummed. Faces, names and aliases whirred through his brain. Not a one went by Xavier. He fingered the reply button.

XAVIER,

Need more info. Dossier by usual channels.

Death

P.S. Crows are murder

IT WAS THE CHALLENGE phrase, he and his mentor used, exclusively. It died with Dr. Russel. So he thought. Of the myriad questions rattling his brain, the identity of this mystery contact was primary.

Senator Rockwell's Suburban Home, Muncie, Indiana

The Senator served his guest a sniffer of Napoleon brandy, To success. He gleamed.

"And the end of Death?"

Pardon? The Senator pondered.

"Sir, Death is the fourth horseman of the Apocalypse... our adversary?" Lancaster encouraged.

The Senator's vote-winning smiled erupted across his face. All teeth and trust, without an ounce of virtue. "Of course, to the death of Death. He lifted his glass and swallowed the aged liquor in a single gulp. Care for another?" He begged.

Lancaster slowly shook his head. His still contained nearly the precious two fingers originally poured. He wasn't prone to opulence. However, when fine brandy, aged to perfection, is thrust in your hand, you savor every guilty drop.

YOUR GUEST HAS ARRIVED. The Senator's aide, Victoria, informed. Her departure a mere rustle of tweed skirt.

The Senator lowered his voice, I hate to see her go, but I love to watch her leave. He smiled.

Lancaster shook his head. Not that he didn't notice, there was too much in his brain to store anything else.

HE TOOK HER ALL IN – Gray slacks; off-white, cashmere sweater; the gentle curves of a former model, perhaps. Caressed with a hint of danger that melted Lancaster's mental inventory. He instantly created a new file just for her.

The Senator beamed, "Meet, Conquest, the first horseman."

Lancaster's smile slacked agape.

Parted lips invite flies. She offered. Her voice a delicate blend of cognac and bourbon. Soft with an edge of intoxication.

"I thought there was only one Horseman." He bewildered.

Darlin', She purred, There can be only one. All others imitate, me."

The Senator offered clarity. "I'm about to tell you something more classified than TOP SECRET. This never happened. Nothing is recorded. Only one other person, outside of this room, knows. Soon, he will be dead." The Senator spat.

Lancaster caught the tone. He knew the Horseman killed his wife, a prominent lobbyist. But the venom in his voice painted brush-strokes, words could never forge.

ROCKWELL PRESSED THE intercom for Victoria. She arrived moments later, carrying a tray with three tumblers, an ice bin and a crystal decanter of Irish Whiskey. Will there be anything else, Senator? She winked.

No, my dear. You may have the evening off.

She answered, slightly disappointed, "As you will. Should you need anything, anything at all, I am only a phone call away." She enticed.

"Thank you, very much. Good night."

Good night, Senator. She closed the door behind her.

ROCKWELL WAITED FOR the front door to latch shut. He turned to his guests, She keeps that up and I'll need more insulin.

You and me both. Conquest replied. And I'm not diabetic.

THE BRANDY WORKED IT's magic as Lancaster's thoughts muddled. Good thing his words stayed clear. Senator?

Yes, yes. He began his lecture with a slide-show regaling the exploits of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. With the visual presentation over, the Senator turned things over to Conquest.

"Aside from myself, only Death remains."

"Only?" Lancaster groped.

Don't interrupt, she coaxed. "We lost War in the Gulf. He set the fires. In more ways than one. Pestilence chose a life of solitary. She's a nun for the Pope."

Don't you mean the Church? Lancaster corrected.

"She's not that kind of nun. Interrupt again and you'll stand in the corner." Conquest replied, testily. "Actually, I vanquished Pestilence, personally. As you know, I'm Conquest."

There are two horsemen, then. Lancaster observed. Moments before Conquest bitch-slapped him. So quick and hard, he never saw it coming. She'd returned to her seat by the time he hit the floor.

Smelling salts burned his nostrils, and his mind ebbed to life.

The sunset played shadows through the etched crystal of French doors. Discombobulated, Lancaster wiped his eyes. Where the hell am I?

The Senator smiled, nonchalant. His cigar-yellowed teeth were crooked by chewing the butts.

Senator Rockwell? Lancaster begged. What the hell?

The Senator chuckled. "You just met the hand of Conquest."

Memories pounced through his brain. He awoke. "The Horseman..."

At your service... Conquest smiled.

SHE CONTINUED THE LESSON. Now for the TOP SECRET shit... our methods.

Osmosis?

Funny. No, we're metaphysical mechanics.

Huh?

They're psychic assassins. Are you sure you belong in charge of this thing? Rockwell answered impatient.

A question strobed through his aching brain. But, he waited for his turn.

You may speak now. Conquest teased.

"You mean the Psychogenic Wet Ops Project?" Lancaster pondered, aloud.

By Jove, I think he's got it! Rockwell mocked.

LANCASTER'S GLAZED expression led him through the decorative French doors. He watched in rapt fascination as the dying sun bathed Conquest's pearl-white Jaguar in a crimson flame. He re-examined his co-conspirators, one by one. He'd reached a realization, poised to speak. Conquest inclined her head with a smile.

You ride a white horse. Lancaster observed

"And Death rides a pale one. She beamed at Rockwell, See, Rick, he's not as stupid as he looks."

FBI Field Office Norfolk, Chesapeake, Virginia

Are you certain? He asked the caller.

Yes, very much indeed. Replied the mouth-breather on the line.

How can you be?

I saw her with my own two eyes.

How can I trust you? He pondered.

By now, if you can't trust me, who can you trust? Posed the caller.

If I'm to trust you, then stop using that cheesy voice changer.

Trust is a virtue best earned. The caller replied.

Touché. He replied.

What will you do?

Leave the details to me.

Okay, Roger, just know it can turn to shit in a heartbeat.

I know. Replied Special Agent, Roger Thorne.

Another breath and the caller cleared the line.

AGENT THORNE PRESSED the intercom, Anything?

This time it was a supply closet... at Langley.

Bloody hell! How does he do it?

Sir, if we knew that, we wouldn't have a trap on your line.

"Very well, have the transcript sent to my secure email."

Yes, sir. Is there anything else? His assistant asked.

Nothing, Delores, unless you have any of those homemade Gingersnaps?

I'll see what I can do.

With that she cleared the line.

MOMENTS LATER, DELORES entered his office, a steaming cup of black coffee and two cookies on a paper plate.

He looked askance.

She replied with the look, He's lucky to have even one.

His smile sent soft reply.

She replied in kind as she hush closed the door behind her.

THE COMPUTER ANNOUNCED, You have Posts! in a sultry, female voice. He never regretted his choice of announcement. It reminded him of London Station and a particular red head.

Branson, Missouri: The Mountain Music Inn

Death read the carbon copy of the transcript from Thorne's computer. So they've found Conquest, eh?  The mysterious, Mr. X, didn't say as much. But Death knew. And that she would be the mechanic they'd use on him. Guess I better put my affairs in order. He pondered. So many hearts to break. So many stories unwritten. Alas.

CHAPTER TWO

WASHINGTON, DC: HOOVER Building

Director Davis pondered a moment, then dug out his keys and unlocked a desk drawer. The Blackphone is the most secure, encrypted phone on the planet. This conversation was for his listener, only.

Have you heard? Davis asked.

"About Conquest?" Mr. X replied.

Yes. What are we going to do?

You? You are to do nothing. I'll take care of it.

How can I be sure? Davis insisted.

I've never let you down before.

That was before... you know?

Before Dr. Russel you mean.

Yes... Was it you, did you kill your mentor?

Not my style.

That's what I thought. I had to ask.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know, Director?"

Sure, what's your real name? Davis smiled.

Mr. X smiled reply, I could tell you, but...

...you'd have to kill me. That joke is so old. Davis scoffed.

Who said I was joking.

Davis left the line open for a moment.

This line won't be secure all day. Is there anything else? Mr. X insisted.

"Yes. It seems Senator Rockwell has a hard-on for The Horseman."

Who doesn't? Have you ever seen him in a dress?

Davis ignored the remark. "He's acquired my Assistant Director for a Horseman witch hunt."

Splendid.

Splendid?

Sure. The best way to flush game is to let the bloodhounds run loose.

I hope so.

I know so. Besides, Director, you worry too much.

That's what my wife says. When will you...

Mr. X cleared the line. Davis hung up.

The Director fat-fingered the intercom, Ms. Floyd, my sugars are low.

She knew what that meant. Today, she wasn't in the mood. She entered his office, a plated cold-cut sandwich, a bag of chips and a glass of milk rested carefully on a tray. Bonn Appetite. she smiled and left.

He digested the snack quickly. Must've been a two bite sandwich. He thought. Either way, it gave him the energy he needed to make the next call. He took a labored breath and dialed.

Collin Rogers, please?

Who should I say is calling? Replied the receptionist for The Daily Cloud newspaper.

Tell him... it's his billiards buddy. He'll know who I am.

One moment please.

A couple of healthy clicks and a false ring-through finally yielded his quarry.

What's up, Dodd? Rogers replied.

My name is Donald Daniel Davis. My friends call me Don.

Since when have we been friends, Dodd?

Why do you call me that? Davis moaned.

With all those D's, what else am I to do? Rogers chided.

I suppose you don't want to know who's hot on your trail?

Who is it this time... Bigfoot?

Rockwell formed a task force to find the man who killed his wife. Rumor has it, that's you.

"Rick the Prick? I'm flattered. But, I thought he hated his wife?" Rogers answered.

He hates you more. Bet, you'll never guess who they chose to lead it?

Surprise me. Rogers replied.

Lancaster.

You're kidding. He couldn't find his ass with both hands and a GPS.

True. But now he has help.

"Let me guess, Conquest."

None other.

"She's had the hots for me since The Farm. I could let her..."

I suggest you lay low.

"You're right,