replaced by a live, digital image of Pad 3 at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California. Pointing upward was a sight familiar to most Americans: a Titan 4B rocket. A powerful thrill washed over him as he studied the image. Anyone couldrecognize the craft, but only a handful of people knew what was in its payload; fewer still knew its purpose, and he had complete control over them—all but one. Prickly anger arose within him and he clenched his teeth tightly, grinding them as he spoke. “I’ll find you,” he said in a growl. “I’ll find you and you will die. That is a promise.”
“What a mess,” McCullers said bitterly. He was staring at what used to be his Dodge Ram pickup. The once new truck was now twisted and bent at awkward angles, its windows broken. The metal skin was a mass of dents and folds. Scratches ran deep into the metal. “Do you know how much this truck cost me? I added five thousand dollars worth of personal improvements.”
Raymond Massey nodded in sympathy. He had taken the Moyer Communications private jet to the Bakersfield Municipal Airport and then rented a car. Thirty minutes later he was standing at the bedside of McCullers, who was already dressed. He had been dismissed by the hospital staff and was eager to leave. Massey had watched him carefully as they walked down the hall of the small hospital, into the lobby, and out to the rented sedan. McCullers moved stiffly but made no complaints. Massey watched the man, not out of concern for McCullers’s health, but out of concern for McCullers’s ability to complete the job for which he had been hired. If the determined, angry look in his eye was any indicator, he was well capable of doing the work.
From the hospital, Massey had driven south along Highway 99 to Highway 58 east. Sixty minutes later he and McCullers had pulled into the small desert town of Mojave and found the impound yard where the Dodge pickup had been towed.
“From the looks of it, you’re lucky to be alive,” Massey said, meaning every word. It seemed unimaginable that McCullers was not as battered and broken as the truck.
“I don’t believe in luck,” McCullers said flatly. “I’m alive because I’ve trained myself to survive. That … and I have yet to fulfill my destiny.”
“Destiny?” Massey was astonished. The man was a hired criminal and assassin, not a humanitarian.
“You think I have no destiny?” McCullers asked harshly. “You think I’m some kind of thug? Fair enough. I’ve done the work of a thug, but I’ve done much more. At least I don’t sit at some desk waiting for the lead dog to bark. I’m my own man.”
“Really?” Massey said, annoyed at McCullers’s arrogance. “You would do well to listen when Mr. Moyer, as you say, barks. He is very powerful.”
“Moyer doesn’t scare me,” McCullers snapped as he walked around to the front of the truck. The radiator bled green fluid on the ground from its fractured grill. He bent over and studied the damage. He sighed loudly. “This is hopeless. It’s a total loss.”
“Moyer doesn’t scare you?” Massey laughed. “Then you are a fool.”
Slowly McCullers straightened and faced him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Anyone who underestimates Mr. Moyer is a fool. That includes you.” Massey watched as McCullers tightened his jaw.
“I would be careful if I were you, Mr. Massey. I will finish my job because I’m a professional, but I don’t have to put up with the likes of you.”
“Actually, you do,” the company man replied coldly. “I am your new partner.”
“I told you on the way down here, I don’t work with a partner,” McCullers snapped. “I never have, and I never will. You got that?”
With a sigh, Massey walked toward the hired killer. Most men would have been frightened out of their skins if they knew what he knew about McCullers. He had been a streetwise orphan, bounced from foster home to foster home until finally he was institutionalized in
“What a mess,” McCullers said bitterly. He was staring at what used to be his Dodge Ram pickup. The once new truck was now twisted and bent at awkward angles, its windows broken. The metal skin was a mass of dents and folds. Scratches ran deep into the metal. “Do you know how much this truck cost me? I added five thousand dollars worth of personal improvements.”
Raymond Massey nodded in sympathy. He had taken the Moyer Communications private jet to the Bakersfield Municipal Airport and then rented a car. Thirty minutes later he was standing at the bedside of McCullers, who was already dressed. He had been dismissed by the hospital staff and was eager to leave. Massey had watched him carefully as they walked down the hall of the small hospital, into the lobby, and out to the rented sedan. McCullers moved stiffly but made no complaints. Massey watched the man, not out of concern for McCullers’s health, but out of concern for McCullers’s ability to complete the job for which he had been hired. If the determined, angry look in his eye was any indicator, he was well capable of doing the work.
From the hospital, Massey had driven south along Highway 99 to Highway 58 east. Sixty minutes later he and McCullers had pulled into the small desert town of Mojave and found the impound yard where the Dodge pickup had been towed.
“From the looks of it, you’re lucky to be alive,” Massey said, meaning every word. It seemed unimaginable that McCullers was not as battered and broken as the truck.
“I don’t believe in luck,” McCullers said flatly. “I’m alive because I’ve trained myself to survive. That … and I have yet to fulfill my destiny.”
“Destiny?” Massey was astonished. The man was a hired criminal and assassin, not a humanitarian.
“You think I have no destiny?” McCullers asked harshly. “You think I’m some kind of thug? Fair enough. I’ve done the work of a thug, but I’ve done much more. At least I don’t sit at some desk waiting for the lead dog to bark. I’m my own man.”
“Really?” Massey said, annoyed at McCullers’s arrogance. “You would do well to listen when Mr. Moyer, as you say, barks. He is very powerful.”
“Moyer doesn’t scare me,” McCullers snapped as he walked around to the front of the truck. The radiator bled green fluid on the ground from its fractured grill. He bent over and studied the damage. He sighed loudly. “This is hopeless. It’s a total loss.”
“Moyer doesn’t scare you?” Massey laughed. “Then you are a fool.”
Slowly McCullers straightened and faced him. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. Anyone who underestimates Mr. Moyer is a fool. That includes you.” Massey watched as McCullers tightened his jaw.
“I would be careful if I were you, Mr. Massey. I will finish my job because I’m a professional, but I don’t have to put up with the likes of you.”
“Actually, you do,” the company man replied coldly. “I am your new partner.”
“I told you on the way down here, I don’t work with a partner,” McCullers snapped. “I never have, and I never will. You got that?”
With a sigh, Massey walked toward the hired killer. Most men would have been frightened out of their skins if they knew what he knew about McCullers. He had been a streetwise orphan, bounced from foster home to foster home until finally he was institutionalized in
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