A Mind for Killing: Book 6 of the Mercenary's Salvation

By Anthony M. Johnson

If I were you, I would stop trying to separate reality from fantasy. Be it through faith or science, we are no longer limited to the rules that Mother Nature laid out for us during our conception . . . For what good is it to be alive if you have no cause to enjoy it? (chapter 6).

2005. Four men lay dead, assassinated by a famous albino mercenary at the turn of every season. Unrelated, scattered across the states, the best that the FBI can figure is that one of their former agents has gone rogue and is on the verge of something greater when its discovered that his next target is a senator from Tennessee. Why him? Why now? What is his plan?

Only Sylvester Jayden, the FBIs elite detective, can figure it out. Crippled and laden with prosthetics after 9/11 and years of service, she had hoped to retire in peace and far away from the government that had used her until her body had worn out completely. Yet when its verified that its Adrian, her brother, thats committing the killings, shell have to put on her holster one last time to stop him as a conspiracy unfurls, one that threatens the entire world with nuclear war.

Join the familiar cast or start fresh in the fourth entry of The Mercenarys Salvation, the satirical saga written by Anthony M Johnson. Awkward romances, gratuitous violence, and comedic commentary of religion, war, American history, and meta humor wait in this latest hit by the veteran thriller author. So grab a smoke, don your trench coat, and take a seat at the bar. The latest modern noir tale starts here!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514488942

Anthony M. Johnson

Anthony M. Johnson is an author of more than ten historical fiction thrillers, including Selective Perception, A World of Strife and The Worth of a Man. Raised in Oregon, he’s traveled and lived all over the world including Hawaii, Argentina, Chile and England, places where he’s worked as a missionary and as a humanitarian worker. He now writes satire about the world and its issues, drawing from his travels and his studies as a student attending Brigham Young University in Utah.

Book preview

A Mind for Killing

Book 6 of the Mercenary’s Salvation

Anthony M. Johnson

Copyright © 2016 by Anthony M. Johnson.

Library of Congress Control Number: Pending

ISBN:  Hardcover  978-1-5144-8896-6

            Softcover   978-1-5144-8895-9

            eBook         978-1-5144-8894-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 04/27/2016

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Contents

Introduction

Prologue: His Better Half

Chapter 1: Play us a song, piano girl

Chapter 2: What a wonderful night to have a curse

Chapter 3: Kaiba Boy

Chapter 4: The man from the east . . .

Chapter 4: The man from the west

Chapter 5: A twinkling of the eye

Chapter 6: Tension on tentative wings

Chapter 7: A case of indigestion

Chapter 8: In memoriam

Chapter 9: The only atheist in a foxhole

Chapter 10: All you need is love/kill

Chapter 11: A study of Scarlett

Chapter 12: Salting the earth

Chapter 13: Shall we dance the dance of death?

Chapter 13: Good thing there are only thirty days in November

Chapter 14: Stille Nacht

Chapter 15: Beasts of no nation

Chapter 16: G.I.T.S

Chapter 16: Palace of the mind

Chapter 17: The old copy gods

Chapter 18: The last carol

Epilogue: Scorched Earth

Postscript analysis

And what more am I? I look for aid to the imagination. [But how mistakenly!] I am not that assemblage of limbs we call the human body; I am not a subtle penetrating air distributed throughout all these members; I am not a wind, a fire, a vapor, a breath or anything at all that I can image. I am supposing all these things to be nothing. Yet I find, while so doing, that I am still assured that I am a something.

—René Descartes, French philosopher and mathematician

Introduction

H ow does it feel, really, to be holding this book? Can you sense the sparks of energy coursing through your tablet or electronic device, peer into its innards, and watch the flow of data that allows your screen to display these characters across the LED? Or are you old-fashioned, one of the few paying the exuberant price to actually hold a so-called physical copy of his novel, the rough covers weighing heavy in your smooth hands as your fingertips lace across these pages?

Do you feel happy, delighted to begin another adventure into a world of violence and mystery? Are you nervous now placed upon the spotlight as I directly address you the reader? Or perhaps you’re already bored, simply itching for the bullets, blood, curse words to fly?

I cannot predict how you can feel, but I do know that no matter what past or present you find yourself in, you’ll feel something. Is that feeling any less real than your cell phone, your paperback copy, or even the hands in which you hold this story? Are the thoughts that course through your brain imaginary, or are they in the pseudo limbo in which you categorize the rest of the information that flows through your senses, such as the sights, sounds, and smells, that are impacting you even at this moment?

Such is the question we pose in this entry of The Mercenary’s Salvation, a tale of hunters and fighters, robber barons and noblemen, even legends and monsters. It is a series produced by Icy Sherries Publishing, a small group employed by Products for Patriots. We hope to present to you a tale that will provide the fun and entertainment to distract you from the woes of day-to-day life while simultaneously challenging it, laying the seeds for greater discussion as we continue our struggle to be the best that we can be.

Of course, many of you are already aware of this. Adrian Vantel, FTMs, and The Sons of Cato are all terms you know by heart. This is a sequel, if you care to pay attention to the numbering. While we invite all those who have not yet purchased the progenitor A World of Strife to read it at the first opportunity, we repeat our statement in that there is enough in this entry to invoke the mind and capture your intrigue, though it would be enhanced with the prior knowledge of past tales.

For like the albino soldier of war, we must turn our attention now to darker times and to a faraway land during the blistering winter of the Cold War. Without further ado, I present to you . . .

The Mercenary’s Salvation

A Mind for Killing

Distributed by Icy Sherries Publishing

Story extracted from the private journal entries of

Maj. Sylvester Jayden

Edited and compiled by Anthony M. Johnson

with assistance from Flow the flower aka

Don’t be so quick to spoil the game, Anthony.

Prologue

His Better Half

March 23, 1984

4:11 p.m.

Furnace Room, Camp Hamelin, Afghanistan

S ylvester Jayden was not having a good week.

Let me be more precise. This was the worst week that Sylvester had ever experienced in her relatively young life—no embarrassment with boys, no accidental slipup in a school presentation, and no misplaying of the wrong string on a violin compared to how awful these past few days had been.

Of course, it was not like she had anyone to compare to. Last time she checked, kids didn’t watch their parents get their heads blown off, chained up on a cargo plane, and shipped to the other side of the world to be treated like cattle. At least, not anyone she knew.

Remembering the order of events was hard. One minute, she was walking out of the movie theater with her only family, and the next, she was eating hamburgers with a bunch of strangers clad in nothing but diapers and underwear. One second, she was told to run across the gym, beaten if she didn’t, and the next, she was seeing her parents bleed out on sand-covered cobblestone, being told she’d have to shut up if she ever wanted to see California again.

There was a medical explanation, though the twelve-year-old wasn’t sure of which one. Was it shock like how soldiers froze up in all the war movies her retired army dad loved to show the family? Was it the blistering heat, the girl trying her best to simply breathe in the suffocating furnace room they had trapped all forty-three of them teenagers in? Or was it the drugs, the food, and the harsh treatment that was causing her mind to shut down, unable to process all that was occurring?

Only a voice drew her away from the dream she found herself in, her blue eyes shifting from diluted memories to that of another girl, one her age and sitting in front of her. Apparently, she’d been calling for quite such time, for the Jewish girl was waving her hand as she said,

Hello! Ground control to Major Tammy! Ground control to Major Tammy!

Why not call me Major Tom? Nothing wrong with having a boy’s name, the girl muttered, shifting her knees as to better cover herself. The sadistic captors, whoever they were, felt that they only deserved clothing at specific times. Right now wasn’t one of them. Naked as the day she was born, the embarrassed Californian wondered how this stranger could be so open, the Jew sitting openly as if she had nothing to hide.

Or so willing to talk. Finally! I’ve been here for a minute, beginning to think you had already passed out. What’s your name?

None of your business, Sylvester replied, her icy personality doing its best to combat the warmth of the room. The Jew deflated at that, frowning, though quickly perked up as she continued her futile attempt to make a friend.

All right, well then let me tell you mine. Nyssa Darzi from Iran. How about you?

Like I said, you don’t need to know.

The Jewish girl grunted, standing upright now as she folded her arms across her chest. Harsher now, not used to such disrespect, Nyssa asked, "Girl, don’t you see what’s going on? Have you ever read the Lord of the Flies? We’re stuck together, meaning we will live and die according to how well we work together."

"Except the adults aren’t here to rescue us. They’re the choir boys, Nyssa, Sylvester replied sarcastically. This isn’t an island. This is an arena. We’re just gladiators, slaves set up to fight one another as entertainment for the Romans. Before you know it, we’ll be ordered to kill each other.

"That’s what Dad always said. That’s what captives are used for once they’re useless. When that day comes, I can’t hesitate to kill you. So don’t be my friend. I will never be yours."

The memo was clear, the hint all but subtle. The Jew, having lost all hope, wandered away as Sylvester’s eyes followed, watching as the stranger made her way to a group of boys arguing with each other. An albino and a ginger were having a particularly rough row, their voices escalating, though nowhere near as interesting as the world of her own thoughts and imagination.

It wasn’t long before she found herself lost in this sea of memory once more, replaying all that had occurred in the past week—the last words of her loving caretakers, the forced showers of her hateful captors, the pleasant weather of California in spring, and the harsh sun of Afghanistan that beat across her back . . .

All that came to an end by a second interruption, though this time it was a distinctly male voice.

Listen up, you deviants. I hoped you’ve enjoyed your fifteen-minute sauna session because it’ll be the last break you’ll be getting today. I got more important crap to do, and I’m mad that I have to put it off to help with your lot. Anyone feel like dying, raise your hand!

Coming out of her current lapse was more difficult than the last. Sylvester figured there were men there, guards standing there with rifles pointed in their general direction, as the blond senator or governor, some politician reaping the benefits of playing both sides of the Cold War, shouted directions and orders at the group of forty-three. Before she knew it, the black-haired maiden found herself walking over and lining up against the wall, her back burning as she stood in a row of children, all varying in nationality and age.

Jim Zedner, the man in a polo shirt and khakis, just kept on talking. One second, he was mentioning something about them being overpopulated; the next, he was waving a .357 magnum about like it was some kind of trophy.

Then he set the weapon on the ground, though all remained frozen. Was this some kind of a game, a test, a competition to thin them out? Sylvester cursed herself for not paying attention when the girl Nyssa stepped forward, her once chirpy face now wrought heavy with fear.

That quickly turned into jubilation. As her mind struggled to adjust to reality, she was able to hear how the Jew somehow won by default. Grabbed by the wrist, the half friend was thrown outside of the boiler room and free of the arena, the room down to forty-two children as the contest of killing continued.

Now was the time to learn the game, Jim announcing that a small Vietnamese child was going to face some tough brute who clearly had played football in middle school. Nearly double the size of the Asian, Sylvester’s eyes cleared for just a moment as time seemed to slow, the two suddenly leaving the wall as they made the break for the middle.

Contrary to her guess, speed won over strength as the smaller boy went into a slide, grabbing the gun and firing it into his opponent in one swift movement. Down the American went, Goliath slain once more by David, as Jim declared the Vietnamese child the winner. A few of the guards even clapped, though the haze set back in as she grew bored of the events that were occurring.

She only snapped out of it again when she heard her name, the blond man announcing, Subject number twelve, Sylvester Jayden, versus numero diez y seis, Toledo Gutierrez. Two illegal immigrants to America, though one of them actually looks like she belongs. Imagine that.

What did the overseer mean by that? Grunting, the girl braced her legs as she found herself eying the magnum lying on the hard ground in the midst of a pool of blood, a multitude of matches having occurred as her dazed mind tried to recover. There were ten, maybe twelve kids remained as she wondered why she was saved for so late, whether it was by chance or by fate.

The same question she pondered as she found her opponent refusing to get ready. With bad English, indicative of the short time he spent in the States, the foreigner faced up to the man who towered before him and challenged.

Mister, I no fight her. I no kill. I am a good man. Bible says no kill.

Are you kidding me? the blond replied, pacing the length of the small chamber as his golf shoes waded through the pools of blood. "We’ve been doing this for almost an hour, and the first kid to chicken up is you? I love Hispanics, but you’re seriously going to surrender? You’re disrespecting your gender and your heritage, hermano."

Jesus said no fighting. Caesar Chavez said no fighting. I am good Catlotico. I no sin.

Ugh, so much for religion encouraging fighting. Damn, hate killing Latinos. But rules are rules. How about you, Jayden? Met your dad once? Tough bastard he was. You going to honor him with your first kill?

Give me the gun. I’ll make it quick.

Sylvester wasn’t entirely sure where her voice came from, sounding as if it bounced around the undetailed, fading room, though she distinctly heard the laughter from the man who claimed to be her master. Scooping the soaked magnum off the floor, he tossed it to the savage, thirsty for violence as she caught it, holding the large and powerful weapon with ease given the lessons her father had given in hunting years past, lessons that would finally pay off.

Aiming for the rival’s forehead, Sylvester found herself taking the safety off as the Mexican immigrant continued to stand stoically, unafraid of death because of a sense of morality and religion she simply did not possess or cared to have. Nothing could be done to help or stop her, especially the words that served to be the Latin’s last last.

Do it.

You don’t have to tell me.

She pulled the trigger and watched as the world exploded around her, consumed by fire and by flame as the dream ended, and the world faded away.

November 27, 2005

6:03 a.m.

Sylvester’s Apartment, Sunrise, Florida

The feeling of cold water against her skin awoke her from her nightmare, purple eyes fluttering open as the major found herself freed from the ghost of the past and back into the real, substantial present.

Waking up was easy or at least had a process to follow as the girl tilted her head back and leaned against the gray tiles of her shower stall—search the details, describe the environment, record every detail, and verify nothing was out of place.

The mirror was spotless and clean. The tiles, white in nature and cleaned once a week by her, were equally so. The small scar of a mouse hole filled up was still present as were the three distinct nail holes in the walls of the twenty-by-twenty box that was her bathroom. All was present; all was where it should be except for her, the girl bringing a pale white hand from the ground and pressing it against a breast, feeling a cool shiver reverberate through her icy body, thanks to the droplets of water that had been absorbed for what could have been a few minutes to the whole night. When did she decide to sleep walk, to strip down and put her body once more through this odd ritual that had been going on regularly for the past two years?

Did it matter? She had the money to pay the bill and the patience to put up with the water company that tried to rip her off. No adverse effects came from extended showering as far as her doctor could tell. The psychologist, of course, said it was something that needed to be resolved, a sign of unstable behavior and a clear indication that something was out of whack.

He said the same thing about her purple hair, cut short save for the long frontal bangs with the whole set of fur dyed to match the contacts that she used to hide her true eyes. That was the clearest mark, the most immediate indicator that didn’t approach the world like her peers did.

They didn’t dream as she did. The average citizen didn’t wake up, finding themselves soaking under streams of water pouring at such arctic temperatures that their flesh would freeze solid. Most certainly of all, the normal person never had to kill anyone, resting with the knowledge that they had manipulated the powers of life and death to the degree Sylvester Jayden had.

So she went her way as they went theirs. Turning off the steady stream of wasted liquid, she left the bathroom and headed to prepare, intending to live yet another day in self-imposed exile, neither happy nor sad, lonely nor glad, instead, simply existing, marking a mark on the world that could not deny that she lived in it or that the Great Blue Orb had wronged her.

Chapter 1

Play us a song, piano girl

November 27, 2005

10:11 a.m.

The Ghost in the String, Sunrise, Florida

W hen you are retired at the age of thirty with more money in your bank account than the average person makes in their lifetimes, you really can’t complain about the way your life had been lived even if it meant the only company you ever had was the occasional visitor to your music store.

Fully awake, prepared, and now living what was her usual day, Sylvester found herself absorbing her environment once more in what was a typical story at the store she owned, The Ghost in the String. A higher-end instrument supplier, the girl having focused on music from the moment she escaped from the lands fought over by the Soviets those twenty years past, there was no denying that the punk with purple hair had, above all, an ear for music.

No mass-produced tools here, only handcrafted specialties, costing thousands of dollars to make and selling for tens of thousands more. No touching was even allowed without first washing hands and having the money available on hand to pay, a small fee for even trying out the goods. More money to the ever-growing account that went unused, Sylvester’s disinterest in living just meant more dollars lying around, cold, that the banks could count on never going collected besides the high dollar she paid for clothing, heavy clothing that kept her from freezing, bundled up because of the preservative, arctic temperatures here AC was set at.

The onset of winter, the busy shopping month where we worship Santa and other assorted holiday vacations just around the corner, furthered her excuse to leave her home bundled up in long jeans and a thick tan turtleneck that was only a slightly darker shade than her skin.

Those sleeves rested on a clear glass counter, fidgeting as the impish shopper trying out the piano struggled to play a simple Christmas carol. With every badly played note, she had to bite her tongue, wishing she could take the expensive signed sheet music books displayed beneath her and cry into them, tissues for a mournful musician forced to endure such baseless butchery.

No insulting the buyer though. Forty-six and flaunting so much money that he could make a solid suit out of hundred-dollar bills, this Chris or Tom or whatever he was simply continued to feed into Sylvester’s hatred for this growing obsession with the latest celebrities. In the olden days, that respect was earned. Actors and directors had to appear in dozens of successful films before they became a star.

Now with just one good hit, they were treated with more reverence than Gregory Peck or John Wayne. This so-called middle-age heartthrob, with one box office hit and no more in over five years, was still treated like a king and paid like one too, making millions of dollars for brief appearances and cameos in whatever new program he could be convinced to come on.

What did this so-called actor do in the rest of his free time? Annoy others with his complaining, apparently. Throwing his hands up into the air, nearly bashing the keys out of anger before he knew how much such a rude and violent action would cost, the man groaned as he turned to face the woman standing behind the counter as he complained.

Your piano is out of tune! I can’t play a single song on it!

Because you don’t know how to play, Sylvester replied, emotionless as she stared on with the violet contact lenses inspired by the aging Elizabeth Taylor. The man found himself stealing an occasional glance at those charming eyes, forcing even longer looks at her athletic and slim body, a good five feet six inches, short enough not to challenge his height or ego.

Yet sexuality had no room when he played the part of the fool. Stammering, the man belted out some excuse like I’ve been playing for three years—

"On an automatic, Auto-Tuned, digital piano. A machine, a fake," the woman bitterly replied, moving from the counter as she began to approach the instrument priced at several hundred thousand dollars. The actor, knowing his place, moved away as the richly dressed Sylvester began to ascend, stepping on platform after platform until she had reached the top of the landing that displayed one of the jewels of her expensive abode—a theater, all controlled by her.

Setting herself into her bench, she took some of the antibacterial moisturizer set upon a table to the side of the giant grand piano as she continued to explain the difficulty.

"A modern instrument is like a gun those dogs in SWAT and the marines have used since the dawn of the twenty-first century. Back then, you had to measure how much pressure you put on the trigger, carefully line up your shot without an automatic targeting system, and carefully monitor how many times you fired to avoid jamming.

"You are playing the right keys, but you’ve been relying on the ghost in the machine to fix the rest of your sloppy playing. With a true instrument, one that lacks these so-called enhancements, you have to watch not only where you place your finger on the note but also how hard, how long, and how often. Add in the pedals, the real care must be taken to clean this beauty internally and the odd quirks that you have to know to automatically compensate for.

"It’s the difference between this—Sylvester told, mashing a few keys one after another in no particular order—to this."

One of the oldest Christmas carols that was never lost to the malicious nature of the times is that of God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen, which by nature of its history and popular usage today makes it one of the most famous tunes of this winter season dedicated to the birth of the savior. Modernized by W. B. Sandys and made reference of in the novel A Christmas Carol as Scourge tried to accost a caroler, it has made its mark in every facet of society as we continue to release newer and newer renditions of it every year.

That, unfortunately, is the most I can do as Sylvester sanctified its beauty. The greatest weakness of fiction lies not in the difficulty to capture what we can see. I can take an ugly wasteland and make it a place of wonder as I describe the coarseness of its sand, the blazing discomfort that is felt on the back of the neck by the wanderer, and the lust for liquid nourishment in a land completely devoid of water. Anything you see, I can make better through the selection of words and syllables that awaken your mind in doing its job for me—sounds.

However, neither I nor Sylvester have yet to encounter an author who can describe the sound of a song better than the actual hearing of it. No reverence, no praise, and no softness nor greatness nor any other adjective will ever be able to encapsulate the beauty that is hearing.

I almost wonder if it’s because of the inability of humanity to describe that which is real. Seeing is believing to the mind whether it be through the actual source for the secular individual or the testimony printed on paper for the religious one. The spoken witness, the sounds of miracles, and the feelings that are brought through the ears instead of the eyes, well, that’s a special kind of conversion that only the most devoted or diluted are capable of.

Yet I will try my best, the Major Jayden playing the song at half its usual speed, not from inability but from reverence for this particular carol. The keys were pressed hard, especially the sharps, the visiting actor immediately put to shame as she played the introduction.

So imagine his surprise when the store owner began to sing. With eyes wide open, focused on a spirit that only she could see, the only member of the audience that she ever cared or played for, Sylvester Jayden sang in a low tone that made full use of her throat as the husky hymn came free, augmented by years of running and physical activity that produced a pair of lungs that needed no breaks besides a few technological enhancements.

So on with the words.

"God rest you merry, gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay. For Jesus Christ, our Savior was born upon this day to save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray. O tidings of comfort and joy. For Jesus Christ, our Savior was born on Christmas Day . . .

In Bethlehem, in jury, this blessed babe was born and laid within a manger, upon this blessed morn, the which his mother Mary, nothing did take in scorn. O tidings of comfort and joy, for Jesus Christ, our Savior was born on Christmas Day . . .

The door, a glass panel mixed in with the windows revealing the bustling street of the world outside, opened as a tall man over six feet in height and dressed in a full suit, a copper shirt in place of a white one, walked in and stood in the corner, listening to the carol that Sylvester played for her angel of music.

"From God our Heavenly Father, a blessed angel came, and unto certain shepherds brought tidings of the same, how that in Bethlehem was born the Son of God by name. O tidings of comfort and joy, for Jesus Christ, our Savior was born on Christmas Day . . .

Fear not, then said the angel. Let nothing you affright. This day is born a Savior of virtue, power, and might, so frequently to vanquish all the friends of Satan quite. O tidings of comfort and joy, for Jesus Christ, our Savior was born on Christmas Day . . .

Sylvester tried to shift her eyes, hoping to catch the identity of this new visitor, but found herself unable to do so without taking her eyes off the sheet of the tune she had enraptured herself in. Knowing the piece to be more important than her gratification, she sang her song with renewed vigor as she