Read Online The Recruiter (A Thriller) by Dani Amore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Dani Amore
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and it’s very hot as Samuel walks through the locker area and finds the exit door next to the bathrooms. Shrouded in the room’s mist, Samuel pauses by the door, strips off his gray T-shirt and puts on the blue one. Then he puts on the baseball cap and the sunglasses. He opens the door and steps out into a small corridor that leads to the pool. There is also an exit door next to the pool entrance that leads to the rear entrance of the fitness building.
Samuel steps outside and walks purposefully toward the ordnance hangar. Everything should be on schedule. After several weeks of constant surveillance, Samuel knows that Wilkins should be running final checks on the ordnance supply, an exercise he performs by himself every night.
Alone.
Samuel hears voices and changes direction, keeping his face hidden from two sailors heading for the living quarters. He readjusts his course and, a minute later, is standing at the door to the Ordnance Training Center. He takes off his sunglasses and walks in. The faint metallic squeal of the door is lost in the cavernous silence of the big hangar.
Samuel lets his eyes adjust to the darker interior, then spots Wilkins. He’s standing near the small metal desk at the rear of the hangar. In his hands is a clipboard.
Samuel’s cross-trainer tennis shoes make no noise on the cement floor as he advances toward the petty officer.
He passes a small worktable and silently scoops up the biggest crescent wrench of the bunch. It feels good in his hands. He walks toward Wilkins, his blood pounding. Samuel thinks of Nevens at the beach. The beauty of it. The thrill of it.
The efficiency of it.
Nevens gone.
Wilkins gone.
Eighteen months and a clear path to the goal.
Samuel’s eyes drill into the back of Wilkins’ brown skull. It seems to be suspended in midair, like a perfectly set volleyball just waiting to be spiked. Samuel steps forward smoothly, confidently, and raises the wrench over his head.
But his tennis shoe makes the slightest squeak.
And Wilkins turns. He raises his hand, but Samuel twists his body, his legs push, his shoulders torque. All the weightlifting, all the working out, he puts it all into that one big swing.
The wrench whistles through the air. It drives through Wilkins’ arm, knocking it down and then sinks into Wilkins’ head. The petty officer drops to his knees, and his arms go around Samuel’s waist. Samuel drops the wrench and drags Wilkins quickly, before the blood pouring down Wilkins’ face can get on the floor, placing him beneath the big bomb hanging from the chain.
It’s a big one, called a Fatboy.
Samuel goes to where the chain is pegged to the wall. He disengages the pulley and throws the latch wide open. The bomb drops to the floor, squashing Wilkins’ head like an overripe melon. Samuel puts the wrench on the table and takes a quick look at Wilkins.
Perfect.
•
Samuel is pumping iron. Hefting fifty-five-pound dumbbells with ease. The adrenaline is pouring through his body. The weights feel like feathers. He is watching the exercise bikes. He’s waiting for the perfect opportunity. At last, the woman he’d seen when he first came in climbs off her bike. As soon as she steps off and is a few steps away, Samuel drops the dumbbells and climbs on the bike. Samuel knows that the exercise bikes have a five-second pause—if you stop pedaling, it will keep your clock running, unless you cancel the program. He’s depending on this handy feature.
This program is still running.
Samuel hops on and starts pumping. The clock continues from where the girl who just finished riding left off. Samuel pushes himself hard, gets the sweat pouring from his face, and he’s riding like he’s never going to stop. He looks at the digital readout: it shows he’s been on the bike for fifty-four minutes.
Perfect.
Samuel pushes harder, his legs flying. He works the controls, puts the resistance as high as it goes, and pushes, his legs never slowing down. Sweat
Samuel steps outside and walks purposefully toward the ordnance hangar. Everything should be on schedule. After several weeks of constant surveillance, Samuel knows that Wilkins should be running final checks on the ordnance supply, an exercise he performs by himself every night.
Alone.
Samuel hears voices and changes direction, keeping his face hidden from two sailors heading for the living quarters. He readjusts his course and, a minute later, is standing at the door to the Ordnance Training Center. He takes off his sunglasses and walks in. The faint metallic squeal of the door is lost in the cavernous silence of the big hangar.
Samuel lets his eyes adjust to the darker interior, then spots Wilkins. He’s standing near the small metal desk at the rear of the hangar. In his hands is a clipboard.
Samuel’s cross-trainer tennis shoes make no noise on the cement floor as he advances toward the petty officer.
He passes a small worktable and silently scoops up the biggest crescent wrench of the bunch. It feels good in his hands. He walks toward Wilkins, his blood pounding. Samuel thinks of Nevens at the beach. The beauty of it. The thrill of it.
The efficiency of it.
Nevens gone.
Wilkins gone.
Eighteen months and a clear path to the goal.
Samuel’s eyes drill into the back of Wilkins’ brown skull. It seems to be suspended in midair, like a perfectly set volleyball just waiting to be spiked. Samuel steps forward smoothly, confidently, and raises the wrench over his head.
But his tennis shoe makes the slightest squeak.
And Wilkins turns. He raises his hand, but Samuel twists his body, his legs push, his shoulders torque. All the weightlifting, all the working out, he puts it all into that one big swing.
The wrench whistles through the air. It drives through Wilkins’ arm, knocking it down and then sinks into Wilkins’ head. The petty officer drops to his knees, and his arms go around Samuel’s waist. Samuel drops the wrench and drags Wilkins quickly, before the blood pouring down Wilkins’ face can get on the floor, placing him beneath the big bomb hanging from the chain.
It’s a big one, called a Fatboy.
Samuel goes to where the chain is pegged to the wall. He disengages the pulley and throws the latch wide open. The bomb drops to the floor, squashing Wilkins’ head like an overripe melon. Samuel puts the wrench on the table and takes a quick look at Wilkins.
Perfect.
•
Samuel is pumping iron. Hefting fifty-five-pound dumbbells with ease. The adrenaline is pouring through his body. The weights feel like feathers. He is watching the exercise bikes. He’s waiting for the perfect opportunity. At last, the woman he’d seen when he first came in climbs off her bike. As soon as she steps off and is a few steps away, Samuel drops the dumbbells and climbs on the bike. Samuel knows that the exercise bikes have a five-second pause—if you stop pedaling, it will keep your clock running, unless you cancel the program. He’s depending on this handy feature.
This program is still running.
Samuel hops on and starts pumping. The clock continues from where the girl who just finished riding left off. Samuel pushes himself hard, gets the sweat pouring from his face, and he’s riding like he’s never going to stop. He looks at the digital readout: it shows he’s been on the bike for fifty-four minutes.
Perfect.
Samuel pushes harder, his legs flying. He works the controls, puts the resistance as high as it goes, and pushes, his legs never slowing down. Sweat
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