Invincible

By Ben James

A man created to do just one function.

A killer set loose to eradicate a government’s perceived enemies.

A hunter dispatched to kill, who becomes the hunted by both those he is sent out to eradicate and by those who sent him.

A battle between his country’s enemies, his own enemies and a life he never realised existed. He has entered into a war between what he is and what he wants to be. Humanity versus inhumanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben James
• Release date: Mar 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005691554

Book preview

1

They call me Leon. I am the newest species here on Earth. God did not create me in his image, man did.

There were originally twelve of us, but over the last twenty years four have ‘washed out’ of the program. That’s how the trainers refer to the ones who left. The remaining eight of us do not know what happened to the other four. We just woke up year after year and they were gone… one by one.

We were all brought here as infants. Bred and altered to suit the desired result; to mold us into assassins. Killers to deal with the rising threat of terrorism that the United States had to acknowledge with the events of 9/11.

I do not remember my father. I believe I have a fleeting memory of my mother, like a still photograph in my mind… dark auburn hair curled around an oval face with freckles across the nose and a warm smile. Whether that image is true or one of the items I have been programmed to believe, I have no idea. My childhood memories consist of doctors, teachers and trainers. Even the other seven, of what I refer to as ‘the team’, I have never been allowed to associate with other than in group training exercises. We are all isolated here at the complex. It is thought to be better for retaining focus. Our goal is to eradicate terrorists. Everything we do is to that end. Our emotions cannot distract us, hence we are taught to bury them deeply.

I was bred from strong stock. I am over six-foot-five and well built having been physically challenged by my trainers since I could walk. My skills in numerous martial arts are the envy of my other team members.

I have also been enhanced by those doctors I mentioned. My retinas have built in UV protection which has always been helpful to me in filtering the sun at the complex here in the Arizona desert. My eyes also have the enhanced ability to both see better in the dark and further into the distance. My hearing has been altered. When I concentrate I can hear a person’s heartbeat when they are close to me. I find this extremely useful when trying to anticipate an attack by one of my other team members. It was also helpful when playing the occasional game of poker with one of my trainers before he caught on and put a stop to our games.

Today is a special day. Today I get to meet the man who has been the guiding force in my life… the head of this program, Mr. Kenneth Brockington. I am hopeful that the reason he is sending for me is to deploy me on my first mission. I feel ready. Even though all I know is the inside of this place, I have been educated well. The whole world is out there waiting to be discovered.

I spend the first three hours of the morning as I always do, working out in the conditioning room. There is one of every cardiovascular, aerobic and strength machine you can think of in the room. It is also dominated by glass – wherever one turns one is faced by a mirror or windows which focus on the barren world outside. My program is varied throughout the week, different days demanding different rigours. This is my life and this is what I do.

My regime goes beyond dedication. For the neurotypical people who train me and look after me, it would be within the realms of obsession. Nobody else here could wake up instinctively every morning, dead on the same time, and spend three hours intensely working every possible muscle before eating. And that is just the beginning of my day.

I am now half-way through my session. At the halfway point, I do one of the more conventional exercises: pull-ups. All my exercises in the conditioning room are undertaken in the same order every day and I perform an exact amount of reps for each individual exercise. I do not question this. There is no need – it is just the way things are done. The three hours in here always seem to go by fairly quickly.

I approach the end of my session. I wipe a thin layer of perspiration from my brow. What I have just done would have practically killed most mortals. But that is not the reason I feel the salty drops of H2O trickling down my face. Shortly I will be meeting Mr. Brockington for the first time. My heart is beating a little faster and nerves must be affecting me for the first time in my existence. Exiting, I quickly ponder whether I will ever work out in here again.

The doorbell to my compartment chimes softly. I’m dressed and ready for the meeting, but if this is my escort they are early. I find a petite blonde woman, close to my age, at the door when I open it.

Leon?

I nod my head.

She smiles and bobs her head in return. I am Rebecca Anderson. I will escort you to Mr. Brockington’s office.

You’re early. I had hoped to grab a bite to eat before the meeting.

I know. Mr. Brockington thought you might like to stop at the dining hall on the way and pick up your usual power smoothie and bagel.

I did not realize the depth of the information the man had on even my mundane activities. I must not underestimate anyone. If he had been an opponent…

I suppose I have paused too long in thought because Ms. Anderson says…

Are you ready, Leon?

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

We walk with purpose, advancing down one of the efficiently clean corridors, passing rows of laboratories, all with transparent glass doors. There is the familiar smell of cleanliness, an aroma of anti-bacterial liquid that must contain some flower extract. I scan the walls, not taking in the art work or literature of daily notices, but instead I notice the perfect organization of them, each frame or piece of paper equidistant from one another.

The dining hall is relatively empty. Early risers have already eaten and are off to their respective jobs. The rest of the team is always staggered so we don’t meet up often. I go to the counter, where the chef has my usual order ready. He doesn’t speak English but we exchange a short greeting in Spanish. I am fluent in many languages and can stumble my way through dozens more.

Would you like to sit for a moment? Ms. Anderson asks as she waves toward a table.

I slide into a chair and she sits opposite me. At this point, I feel like asking her some of the questions racing through my mind, but I fight with myself trying to put those questions into words. What is it that I really want to know? My questions range from; who is Mr. Brockington and what can I expect, to where did I come from and who are my mother and father? This last question is one we have been told is of no importance to us. The complex is our home and the team our extended family. I put the idea of questions aside and finish my breakfast quickly. The sooner I get to Mr. Brockington, the sooner I will get answers… hopefully.

We leave the dining hall and proceed to the elevator. The doors open and she indicates for me to step inside first. The tension that developed during the silence while I ate my breakfast is carried with us like an unwelcome passenger. The woman’s manicured fingers flick the button for the top floor, the only part of the complex I have never entered.

When the doors open I instinctively advance forward, anticipating Ms. Anderson’s presence by my side, but as the elevator doors close she goes with them. Not having time to ponder why she has departed so hastily, my attention is seized by the grand marble desk ahead of me which dominates the spacious room. A tall man in an expensive black suit occupies the leather seat behind it. Mr. Brockington. The brainchild behind my conception two decades ago.

I also immediately notice the two guards either side of me, about six paces away from the elevator doors. At least I think they are guards; that is what their body language and attire conveys. I have no reason to be worried – I know my value. I also know that in the space of approximately thirty seconds I could kill these two guards, Mr. Brockington and the butch-looking woman who stands beside him. Perhaps a little longer, depending on the strength and agility of the guards. These must, I assume, be normal security measures.

The tall white man stands up, dominating the room as he has dominated my life. As he walks towards me to shake hands, I am hit by the smell of stuffy cologne.

Take a seat, Leon, he says in a friendly voice, before sitting back down and reclining. The atmosphere is instantly a little more relaxed.

The toned athletic woman indicates for me to take the comfortable, black leather chair beside Mr. Brockington’s desk. I smile at her, but she does not return it.

Let me offer you some water, Leon. I know you rehydrate after your workouts. Julie, go and get him a drink.

I say thank you in my mind before realising them as words. I feel some sort of emotion and I must be warming to Mr. Brockington. He is the only one that strikes me as friendly and sociable, though I suspect the other three humans occupying this room are just going about their job. Again, the woman’s face is expressionless as she heads toward a wooden structure on one of the walls, comprising of connected shelves with stacks of files. I watch with interest. There’s no sign of refreshments there! But then pulling the structure towards her, it flips open ninety degrees, leaving her an open passage to another room. I am guessing it is a kitchen of some sorts.

Do you have any idea why you are here, Leon?

No, but I assume that is what you are about to tell me.

Yes – yes it is. I was just checking nobody here had breached confidentiality rules.

The woman returns with a glass of water and my daily vitality pill, which bolsters my energy and strength throughout the day. I should have known he would know about that too. The wall closes behind her, the shelves returning to their static state.

Thank you I say. I look around the room again and I spot a flag, the Stars and Stripes in the left-hand corner, behind Mr. Brockington.

Leon, as you know, you are government owned. The American government regards you as one of their greatest assets. You know that you are different than most people here, the ones you see most of the time, but the reason we made you different is so that you would become an efficient and lethal soldier. Our hopes now rest on you.

"Who exactly is our?"

America. Us. The wider world, even. We, the CIA, have looked after you here since you were born and have watched you develop. Now the time has come to show that you are ready and that everything has been to a purpose.

As I look out through the blinds, allowing slivers of sunlight to illuminate the room, I reflect on my life thus far. I compartmentalise my life into two parts: before I was twelve and after. It was at that tender age when I moved to the other part of the complex and began my intense physical conditioning, combat skills and further intelligence development. Yet as I stare at the desert outside, I cannot conjure any significant memories of the first part of my life. That stage is a blur; a collage of broken images. Visions of doctors, operating rooms and people dressed in scrubs with their faces hidden behind masks.

From the minute you were born, I knew this time would come. I never had to interfere personally as I have always had oversight of things, making sure that you would be prepared for your first mission. And here we are.

So, what is my mission? I say in a business-like manner. My curiosity is piqued, but I know the only way to stop thinking about the questions is to be thrust into a new environment, a new beginning.

I’ll tell you when I know you are ready for it.

I am stunned. I cannot believe what I am hearing. He already knows that I am ready. What more do I have to do to prove myself? I do not exactly know what he means, but I convince myself there must be some logic behind his statement.

Leon, I’ve never seen you kill a man before. But assassination will be central to your mission and therefore I would like to see a demonstration of your skills. In a moment I will snap my fingers and the two assassins behind you will strike. If you do not kill them, they will kill you.

But– but– this does not make sense. Why do I have to kill them? I utter disbelievingly.

Yet Mr. Brockington and his female assistant do not respond. I cannot believe he wants me to kill two of his own people; people that I believed were more than just guards to him.

He snaps his fingers and I feel the two men close in on me. One of them grabs me by the throat while the other man launches his fist into my stomach. I feel my insides vibrate, but it is not yet pain that I am feeling. He punches me in rapid succession and I discern the strength of both men. I feel the hot breath of the man behind me as he desperately tries to strangle me. I hold firm, flashing a glance at Mr. Brockington to see if this definitely is for real. It is. They really are going to kill me if I don’t do anything.

I pull away from the man in front and lean into the other. He has no heartbeat! This is all some mad game. Mr. Brockington must know I can tell the difference between a flesh and blood human and an AI. A smile of satisfaction crosses my lips. I can play this game.

I raise both of my legs off the floor, kicking back the man who is punching me and he crashes into one of the walls. My feet return to the floor and I feel the assassin straining to break my neck. I drop like a stone and he tumbles with me. He releases me. I send a blow to his jaw with my elbow, before vaulting to my feet and kicking him. It should only be a matter of time before I finish them off, yet the man is now surging towards me with determination. I swiftly step aside and with perfect timing and execution, I deliver an