Snakeskin Assassin: The Snakeskin Trilogy, #2

By Bryce Bell

How can an assassin retire?

 

Who does he have to kill to be free?

 

The Witch Doctor is a skilled assassin with a retirement agenda to kill everyone who knows his bloody past. He has two great weapons: a Snakeskin suit of hazmat armor and a new weaponized drug that can kill anyone using their unique DNA. Once infected, their death is rapid and horrible.

 

A black-ops CIA front known as the Archer Foundation is the Witch Doctor's employer and target. He would be unstoppable except for two people with unique skills capable of stopping him. Sam "Spider" Conrad is a medical researcher with knowledge of SNIPER DNA, the drug discovered to cure disease but turned into a weapon and field-tested by the Witch Doctor. Commander Mark Kipling is the developer of the Snakeskin armor and a battle-tested warrior. 

 

Together, Kip and Spider are the only hope the management of the Archer Foundation has to stay alive. All their guards and secure bunker headquarters cannot prevent an infection carried in a cup of coffee or a sweaty handshake...

 

The Snakeskin Assassin has the tools, the skills, and the motivation to retire. Only Kip and Spider can save Archer and themselves from his attacks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sportscar Projects Ltd.
• Release date: Dec 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215165867

Bryce Bell

Bryce Bell is a former military consultant with top secret security clearance. He has worked on mission-critical systems and engineering projects with large teams in various locations, including the far north and naval bases on the west coast of North America. Mr. Bell keeps a low profile and only interacts with the public through his publisher's email at [e-mail]

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Ahmen parked his Lincoln Continental in the long-term parking at the Los Angeles Airport and hopped the shuttle to Terminal 2, where thousands of international travelers arrived from around the world. He stood beneath the escalators, watching the arrivals as they hurried towards the exits, looking for a suitable man for his purposes. He scanned the crowds passing by, watching for a particular traveler, alone and about his size. A young man in a black suit hurried past him, dragging a wheeled suitcase behind as he veered towards the men’s toilet.

The Ahmen, also known as the Witch Doctor, his code name within the covert Black Ops agency called the Archer Foundation, has arrived in LA from Belize where he had successfully stolen and field-tested a new biological weapon. This new weapon was perfect for a trained assassin like himself, known for his creative use of his medical background to kill his victims. Thus, his Witch Doctor moniker was appropriate at the time of his recruitment, now an outdated and colonial name for what he has become now: the Ahmen.

The Ahmen is the shaman of the rain forest, in tune with the earth and the living elements of nature. Now that he had stolen the great discovery of SNIPER DNA, an extract from an extraordinary death angel mushroom found only in the bowels of a hidden Mayan temple, long hidden for centuries until the Discover unlocked the secrets of this rare mushroom.

The Discoverer was a veteran doctor named Kipling who shared the death angel’s unique properties with the Ahmen before he dies. As a fitting tribute, the Ahmen performed the ritual shrinking of his head to capture his soul. Dr. Kipling’s head now rests quietly in the Ahmen’s right pocket.

The Ahmen, having selected the man in the black suit, followed him inside the toilet. He entered the handicapped stall until the unfortunate man finished pissing at the urinals. As he turned to wash his hands, The Ahmen killed him with one blow to his throat, caught him as he fell to the floor and dragged him into the stall. The Ahmen stripped him, slipped on his suit and propped the poor man on the toilet seat, naked and dead. He walked away, wheeling the dead man’s carry-on behind him through Terminal 2 and into the queue on the curb waiting for the Hertz rental bus.

He climbed aboard the bus with a group of British tourists and four hyperactive marketing executives from some nameless computer company. He sat in silence as the four men ranted about the stupidity of their customers.

Mercifully, the bus ride was only a few minutes, and he was in the office reserving a black loaded Lincoln Town car. He picked it up, admiring the smiling grill and immense size inside and out. Lincolns were a symbol of American design for excess, the ultimate in foreign luxury to him, growing up in poverty all those years ago.  

He drove out of the Hertz lot and back to the long-term parking where he picked up Chac, his pet armadillo. He stole Chac from a leprosy research laboratory where he was a caged test subject. Armadillos have the rare ability to be infected with the same leprosy bacteria as humans, so they can be excellent test subjects for new treatments, As he curled up on the back seat, covered in white, dry skin lesions, he was part of the Ahmen’s test program, to perfect the SNIPER DNA mix of the death angel toxin with leprosy bacteria. This toxin, found only in a lost Mayan temple in Belize, has the unique ability to both bond with bacteria but also speed up the bacterial growth at a fantastic rate. SNIPER DNA was the property of his employer, Archer. So, it was fitting that he use it to attack his handlers and complete his mission to resign and start his new life as a medical savior of all mankind.  

The Ahmen gathered his medical weapons–an assortment of lethal poisons and gases - his assassin kill kit he kept in the trunk of his Continental. He locked it and drove out of the parking lock in his rental Lincoln, moving straight up La Cienega Boulevard to West Hollywood, where he wheeled into the upper parking lot of the Hyatt Andaz and checked into one of the junior corner suites with the fish tank recessed into the wall beside the light switch.

Later, after a shower and a quick meal on Sunset, the Ahmen locked Chac in the bathroom and set Dr. Kipling on the table facing the fish tank. He hung the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door handle and took the elevator to the rooftop pool. He walked the perimeter, admiring the houses on the hillside behind the hotel, busy Sunset Boulevard at his feet, the endless city laid out in all directions and the Pacific Ocean in the far distance, barely discernable through the haze of exhaust and industry.

The Ahmen had visited LA many times before. He would fly in and meet Karl Novak, his Archer Foundation handler, who would give him the assignment. LA was always his starting point. Now he would enjoy the next few days, marking the death of one working life and the birth of another. Quitting your job was something to treasure, an act of finality one should do with a certain pleasure and style.  

As Dr. Kipling kept reminding him, there was nothing like running your own business. Being the boss. No longer would he be under another supervisor, taking orders. He was declaring his independence, taking his game to a new level. On the roof of the Hyatt, with the city all around him, he felt the power of opportunity, a master of his own destiny.

He would quit with style, a leper returning home to the colony.

As the sunset bloomed down the boulevard, two models arrived at the pool with a photographer. In the crimson light of dusk, the models stripped down to string bikinis and posed together as the camera captured their beauty in digital pixels by the millions.

The Ahmen sat nearby, watching the women lick their lips and thrust their breasts upwards to mimic the Hollywood hills behind them. Neither woman compared in beauty to his lovely Malaya. He quickly tired of them and went back to his room to prepare for his first day back at the office.

Chapter 2

H ere she comes, early as usual, said the Ahmen to his companion. He sat in the front seat of his Lincoln Town car parked in the strip mall across the street from the Archer building. He had his organization chart propped up against his steering wheel, tracking the comings and goings of his fellow employees.

Patricia Masters was always one of the first employees arriving at the head office of Archer. She drove a late-model BMW which she parked in the executive lot next to the entrance to the building, Slamming her door and locking it, she walked into Archer with a laptop bag handing over her shoulder, a slim purse tucked under her arm and a large Starbucks coffee in her left hand.

As the glass doors shut behind Ms. Masters, the driver of the Lincoln put aside his org chart and consulted his black book of field trials.

What does the Discoverer think about a slow dosage for her, perhaps half of the usual? Enough to make her feel sick and go home? asked the Ahmen.

Perhaps mix in a little laxative with the leprosy? said Dr. Kipling, smiling.

Perhaps, yes. I like your mind, my friend. As usual, a delight to work with you.

But how will you administer the dosage? asked Dr. Kipling.

Oh, I think even a power lady like Ms. Masters takes a few minutes for lunch. With any luck, she’ll have a date. She is attractive, in a dominatrix sort of way.

You know her?

Yes, replied the Ahmen. I know her and I know where she likes to go for lunch, and with whom. It’s no coincidence that she’s the CIO. She’s sleeping with Director Tower. Every Wednesday, they sneak out for sex and snacks.

Today is Wednesday, said Dr. Kipling.

Right again, my friend, my Discoverer.

Patricia Masters had kept her regular rendezvous with Director Tower, and now she watched her lover dress while she lay naked in bed.

You need to bite something else besides me, my dear, said Tower, as he knotted his tie. I have to run to a meeting. I’ve ordered lunch for you.

Fuck and run, like usual, she said, as she slid out of bed and pecked him on the cheek. I’ll be in the shower. Tell them to leave it in the room.

Patricia washed away the scent of sex from her body as the Ahmen wheeled in a modest lunch of sandwiches, pastries, and coffee. It was a delightful meal except for the coffee. He spiked it with a strong laxative and a low dose of the deadly combination of death angel toxin and Mycobacterium Leprae.

A half-hour later, they were all back at the Archer Foundation office: Director Tower, Patricia Masters, and the Ahmen parked across the street. Tower reviewed his budget while Patricia logged into ICARUS to monitor the intrusion spiders keeping watch over the Archer Intranet security. Outside, the Ahmen wrote the detailed record of his latest field trial in his black notebook.

He turned to a new, crisp white page where he wrote the name Patricia Masters, Archer CIO on the top. Underneath that, he wrote the date and time and the quantity of laxative, death angel toxin and leprosy bacteria he added to the coffee urn. He closed the book, marking the page with a slender bookmark, tucked the book and pen in his pocket and waited for the drugs to kick in and send Patricia home to the comfort of her toilet.

Patricia Masters was in a status meeting with two of her system project managers when she felt the first queasy gurgle of her bowels. She paused in mid-sentence, to the surprise of the two managers.

Are you okay, Patricia? said one of the project managers.

I’m not sure, said Patricia. I think we must continue this later.

She raced out of the room and down to the executive Ladies washroom, which she shared with Danielle. She leaned on the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. She felt the illness coming on, could see it in her face. She left immediately, knowing the macho Archer executive assholes would use any weakness on her part as an opportunity to undermine her authority.

Ten minutes later, Patricia was driving fast down Wilshire Boulevard to her high-rise condominium in Century City. She drove with a mission, weaving out of traffic, knowing every second counted. Her bowels were screaming for a toilet, the pressure building up with each stoplight. She fought to make it home. She gritted her teeth, calming her bowels with the image of her toilet just a few blocks away. If she looked in her rear-view mirror, she would have seen the black Lincoln Town car a block behind her, but she did not. She was a desperate woman; single minded, in love with her greatest friend of the moment, that white toilet in her condo.

Come on, Pat! You can make it! She repeated over and over in her mind.

She barely paused as she drove through the security gate to her underground garage beneath her building. The Lincoln slipped in behind her, contrary to condo policy.

She took the stairs to her room on the second floor, not daring to wait for the elevator. The running motion seemed to hold back the tides of misery in her bowels. If she stopped, even for a second, the dam might break. She reached the second floor and turned along the hallway to her room. 210. She ran, fearing she’d never make it. God, the key! Where is that damn key? Open the damn door! Come on and open up, you miserable lock! Finally! In, slam the door, run to the toilet, pull down, and sit! God, oh my God! Oh, my God in Heaven!

Relief.

Patricia surrendered to her body’s needs as her bowels released their burden. She groaned, helpless, as her abdominal muscles contracted again and again. There was nothing more, but still her body tried. She was in great distress, too preoccupied to hear her door open. She didn’t hear the footsteps on the floor, the squeak of a chair, the rustling of the pages of a notebook.

Finally, the cramps receded, and she reached for the toilet paper. It was then that she noticed the itching on her palm. She scratched it with her other hand, the long red nails digging into her flesh. What? She turned her palm up and saw the white flaky skin of her palm. Her nails left four deep gouges in her palm, exposing the bone underneath. She pulled up her sleeve to reveal her arm had turned white. As she pulled on her sleeve, the friction of the fabric on her skin made it fall off like a crust of bread, crumbs falling to the floor. She tried to move her fingers, but they were retracting into a claw, the tendons pulling in, shrinking as the moisture within her flesh evaporated. She stared in disbelief at her hand. She felt no pain, just confusion and fear, as her hand shriveled up before her eyes. She tried again to move her fingers and, for an instant, she could. Her thumb moved ever so slightly. Then it fell off onto the floor.

Patricia turned in shock as the bathroom door opened and a strange man walked in, his face covered with a white surgical mask. She sat on the toilet, humiliated, as this giant man stood there staring at her. Then he did the oddest thing in the world. He reached into his breast pocket and took out a notebook and pen. He glanced at his watch and started writing.

I have an antidote which I can administer to you, to save your life, he said.

What–what do you want? she said, choking on each word.

Your password for ICARUS, Ms. Masters. Tell me, he said.

Patricia looked at her hands, decaying before her eyes. She doubted the man would save her. She should keep the password a secret, take it to her grave like a good soldier would. For Archer. Patricia knew she wasn’t a soldier. She was corporate executive material. A strategic planner, not a field operative. If she had any chance to live, she needed to take in now. Her ICARUS system would protect Archer if this man attempted to search the files. The downside was minimal and damn it, she wanted to live.

Katie998, she said.

He laughed, Your niece’s name and birth date. How original. I would have guessed that with little difficulty.

He wore white latex gloves, which she noticed for the first time. His powerful left hand clamped down on her throat, his other hand stuffing a stocking into her mouth, choking off her scream. He wrapped a handkerchief around her mouth, gagging her, and then he stepped away. Patricia tried to pull off the gag, but her fingers wouldn’t work. Her other hand was also white, clawing up like her right hand. Her exposed thighs were now turning white; she could almost see the flesh yield inch by inch to this relentless attack. Her eyes were clouding over.

"Alas, there