just as simple? Quick and easy. Mitigate the risk. Murder with the click of a mouse.
Parkerson devised a business model. An online database, efficient and anonymous. He’d farm out the killing. Keep his own hands clean. Let someone else do the risky stuff while he counted his money in the background.
He’d searched for months for suitable assets. Common criminals wouldn’t do; they’d get greedy, or scared. They’d make mistakes, freak out at the first complication. Too imperfect. Too
human
. Parkerson needed better.
He needed drones: cold, clinical, and totally malleable, capable ofcarrying out instructions quickly and self-sufficiently without ever compromising the program at large. What he needed were trained killing machines.
He found them in steady supply. Two wars were raging. Young men and women were returning from the combat zones by the planeload, many of them psychologically scarred and extremely vulnerable.
It had taken some time, but he’d perfected the formula. Young veterans, loners, traumatized by the war. He found them at veterans’ centers and army hospitals and reeducated them. It was a messy procedure, fraught with risk. Some assets didn’t take to the training, and Parkerson had realized very quickly that though he’d hoped to run the program without ever having to actually kill anyone himself, the assets’ seemingly boundless capacity for failure meant he was going to have to get his hands dirty, and often.
The first candidate had hanged himself within hours of meeting Parkerson. The second had possessed a frustrating immunity to the reeducation process, and an equally frustrating tendency toward attempts at escape. Parkerson had rewarded both men with unmarked graves, and in those early, messy months he’d buried defective asset after defective asset, all of them either too fucked up in the head or not quite fucked up enough for the job.
Little by little, though, Parkerson had learned how to choose the right candidates. Mastered the training regimen. Slowly but surely, the attrition level dwindled. And, just as surely, the program began to thrive.
Still, even the good assets came with expiry dates, no matter how good they were. This current kid, Lind, was on his fifth kill, geriatric in asset years, and Parkerson knew it was almost time to start looking for a replacement. In the meantime, though . . .
Parkerson clicked on the first application, the time-sensitive client, and set about confirming the kill.
25
S tevens played a hunch and tried the Liberty counter first. It paid off.
The clerk was a middle-aged woman. She smiled at Stevens, wide and friendly, as he approached the counter. Her smile faded somewhat when he showed her his badge. “Officer,” she said. “Geez. What can I do for you?”
“I’m hoping you can find me a car,” Stevens told her. “A little blue car. Returned yesterday.”
The woman frowned. “Make and model?”
“Afraid not,” Stevens said. “Would have been rented sometime between Saturday and Monday morning. Probably to a young guy, brown hair, medium build.”
The woman punched something into her computer. Then she stopped. “Wait a second,” she said. “The skinny kid, right? Really pale, rented a Kia?”
Stevens shrugged. “You tell me.”
She nodded. “Has to be. This guy flew in yesterday afternoon. Rented a little Kia, blue, like you said. Dropped it back a couple hours later and flew out again.”
Stevens couldn’t help grinning. “Couple hours, you said?”
“Three hours, at the most. He was twenty-five, maybe. Nice guy, I guess. Didn’t seem to want to say much, though. And his eyes.” She looked at Stevens. “There was something spooky about him, I remember it now. Like he was looking through me, you know?”
“That’s our guy. You have his reservation on file?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman typed something else into her computer. Then she frowned. “That’s strange,” she said. “I could have sworn
this
guy
Parkerson devised a business model. An online database, efficient and anonymous. He’d farm out the killing. Keep his own hands clean. Let someone else do the risky stuff while he counted his money in the background.
He’d searched for months for suitable assets. Common criminals wouldn’t do; they’d get greedy, or scared. They’d make mistakes, freak out at the first complication. Too imperfect. Too
human
. Parkerson needed better.
He needed drones: cold, clinical, and totally malleable, capable ofcarrying out instructions quickly and self-sufficiently without ever compromising the program at large. What he needed were trained killing machines.
He found them in steady supply. Two wars were raging. Young men and women were returning from the combat zones by the planeload, many of them psychologically scarred and extremely vulnerable.
It had taken some time, but he’d perfected the formula. Young veterans, loners, traumatized by the war. He found them at veterans’ centers and army hospitals and reeducated them. It was a messy procedure, fraught with risk. Some assets didn’t take to the training, and Parkerson had realized very quickly that though he’d hoped to run the program without ever having to actually kill anyone himself, the assets’ seemingly boundless capacity for failure meant he was going to have to get his hands dirty, and often.
The first candidate had hanged himself within hours of meeting Parkerson. The second had possessed a frustrating immunity to the reeducation process, and an equally frustrating tendency toward attempts at escape. Parkerson had rewarded both men with unmarked graves, and in those early, messy months he’d buried defective asset after defective asset, all of them either too fucked up in the head or not quite fucked up enough for the job.
Little by little, though, Parkerson had learned how to choose the right candidates. Mastered the training regimen. Slowly but surely, the attrition level dwindled. And, just as surely, the program began to thrive.
Still, even the good assets came with expiry dates, no matter how good they were. This current kid, Lind, was on his fifth kill, geriatric in asset years, and Parkerson knew it was almost time to start looking for a replacement. In the meantime, though . . .
Parkerson clicked on the first application, the time-sensitive client, and set about confirming the kill.
25
S tevens played a hunch and tried the Liberty counter first. It paid off.
The clerk was a middle-aged woman. She smiled at Stevens, wide and friendly, as he approached the counter. Her smile faded somewhat when he showed her his badge. “Officer,” she said. “Geez. What can I do for you?”
“I’m hoping you can find me a car,” Stevens told her. “A little blue car. Returned yesterday.”
The woman frowned. “Make and model?”
“Afraid not,” Stevens said. “Would have been rented sometime between Saturday and Monday morning. Probably to a young guy, brown hair, medium build.”
The woman punched something into her computer. Then she stopped. “Wait a second,” she said. “The skinny kid, right? Really pale, rented a Kia?”
Stevens shrugged. “You tell me.”
She nodded. “Has to be. This guy flew in yesterday afternoon. Rented a little Kia, blue, like you said. Dropped it back a couple hours later and flew out again.”
Stevens couldn’t help grinning. “Couple hours, you said?”
“Three hours, at the most. He was twenty-five, maybe. Nice guy, I guess. Didn’t seem to want to say much, though. And his eyes.” She looked at Stevens. “There was something spooky about him, I remember it now. Like he was looking through me, you know?”
“That’s our guy. You have his reservation on file?”
“Yes, sir.” The woman typed something else into her computer. Then she frowned. “That’s strange,” she said. “I could have sworn
this
guy
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