Blur Read online

  Blur-A John Kane Novel

  By Orlando Sanchez

  Published by OM Publishing

  Copyright 2014 Orlando Sanchez

  Other titles by Orlando Sanchez

  The Spiritual Warriors

  http://www.amazon.com/Orlando-SAnchez/e/B008T8MMQ0/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

  Follow Orlando at

  Blog http://nascentnovels.com/

  Facebook https://www.facebook.com/OSanchezAuthor

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/SenseiOrlando

  This book is available in print at most online retailers

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  Chapter One

  The call came as these calls usually do, in the middle of the night. The phone rang twice before he picked it up. It was four am. He knew, calls at this hour, usually meant one of two things, someone died, or needed to.

  “Hello John.” He recognized the voice, Trevor.

  “Where?”

  “Your usual morning haunt. Let’s say half past six?”

  Trevor’s accent was still as thick as he remembered. The statement itself was telling. It meant he had been under surveillance for several months. This was not a surprise; he knew they would probably be watching him for the rest of his life. The usual haunt, as Trevor suggested was John’s favorite Starbucks. It was located on the corner of 79th street and 37th avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens. John enjoyed his coffee there every morning. It was a routine he enjoyed. Routines, he knew, had a habit of killing people like him, so he took steps to vary the frequency of his visits, picking odd times, occasionally missing a day or two. It was obvious he didn’t vary enough.

  I must be slipping. He got out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

  He got there at six, the barista, Lisa, was just opening up. As Starbucks went, this was one of the most comfortable. It was also the only one in the neighborhood. John’s training took over the moment he entered a place. He noticed everything and then put it in the back of his brain. It was automatic and had saved his life on more than one occasion. His brain was doing it now as he sat waiting in the Starbucks. There were two large panes of glass that bookended the entrance to create the face of the shop. Immediately upon entering, on the left was a large square table that sat four.

  Along the left wall were four small round tables evenly spaced, two chairs each. On the right side was a long, high backed sofa that threatened to swallow you if you sat on it. Four more of the round tables shared the sofa each with a chair. Further along on the right was a leather sofa, with a low oval table before it.

  Surrounding the oval table were three rust colored wingback chairs. Above the sofa were three large mirrors arranged in what may be considered tasteful décor. The counter was next, and this followed the template of most Starbucks: display case followed by cashier station, followed by coffee/espresso/exotic coffee machine area. In the back before the bathrooms there were more of the wingbacks. It made John wonder if there was a sale on the rust colored chairs at some point. The walls were a pale off-white and contrasted with the wood paneling that ran the entire length of shop.

  On the walls, in decorative frames, were prints of coffee from different parts of the world. Estate Pacamara from El Salvador rested beside Elephant Kinjia from Africa. Each print portrayed a geographic image of its point of origin. The lighting was dim as usual, an homage to the bistros of yesterday. It was an attempt at atmosphere that succeeded on some basic level. To finish it off, the tile floor accented the wood and contrasted the walls perfectly.

  The place was a temple and coffee was its god. And like every place of worship, there was music, music which on the whole gave John a headache. Since he was the only patron at this hour, Lisa mercifully refrained torturing him with the music. She had his coffee, black, waiting at the cashier.

  “Thank you Lisa,” John said as he paid with a twenty for a two dollar cup of coffee.

  He always put the change in the clear plastic tip cube sitting next to the register. He felt it was small price to pay for an hour or so of silence before the morning rush and policy forced Lisa to turn on the music. They were always apologetic when they did turn it on. John would just smile and assure them it was OK. He took his customary chair in the back beside the other wingbacks. His chair provided him with an unobstructed view of the entrance and easy access to the service entrance and bathrooms.

  Forget slipping. He sipped his coffee. This is full blown sloppiness.

  At first glance, the place looked like a deathtrap, two exits easily guarded, which meant easily controlled. John knew different. Inside the staff bathroom, was an unused service door that had been sheet rocked over. A quick look at the plans of the Starbucks confirmed what he suspected. The door led to the restaurant next door, from there to a stairwell that exited behind the restaurant into an alleyway. The exit was out of the line of sight of the building on the northwest corner of 79th Street, a perfect place to position a sniper. The staff bathroom was never used during business hours, which meant it was locked. It cut down on work for AnnMarie, the manager, who only had to maintain the remaining two customer bathrooms. John convinced AnnMarie that he was something of a germaphobe. That, coupled with his large tips, garnered him a key to the staff bathroom that he used sparingly.

  At six thirty exactly, a figure strode in to the shop. He was tall, with chiseled features more appropriate on the cover of some men’s fashion magazine. Dressed in a dark blue Armani suit, he exuded privilege. Everything about him was impeccable. The hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. The tie, some exotic blue silk, was tied in a perfect Windsor. The shirt, a white which seemed to faintly glow was pressed and starched to perfection. John looked at the figure approaching him, taking in the gait, the calm assured manner in which he moved. He noticed the poise, the economy of motion. The man was highly trained. If it came down to it, he would be difficult to subdue.

  Subdue? No he would have to kill if it came to that. Trevor sat in the wingback facing John, his back to the door. It was a clear indicator that he had nothing to fear at this meeting. John knew he would have men stationed at the entrance and service exit. This Starbucks was about to have its slowest morning in history.

  “Trevor,” said John

  He took in the complete image, carefully crafted to disguise the predator lying beneath the surface of polish and fashion. Trevor settled into this chair placing his Halliburton case beside him. He crossed his legs, the Bruno Magli on his feet screamed excess and vanity. It was all a sham, a façade that John saw through.

  “Hello John, we need to talk.” The words were fast and clipped.

  Something has him worried, thought John.

  “I’m here, talk.”

  “Direct as always. I always appreciated that about you John.”

  “I’m only here, because it’s you, Trevor.”

  Trevor held up his hand as he reached for the case. John tensed slightly. Trevor deliberately slowed his hand, and pulled out a CD case, placing it on the table along with a file folder.

  “Tell me John, have you had any new students?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?” Trevor said as he pushed the file on the table followed by the disc closer to John.

  “You came all this way to ask me a question, I’m sure you know the answer to. Why?”

  “I needed to make sure, see your eyes. I remember Kei fondly as well.” said Trevor.

  The name struck a cho
rd, not a day passed that he didn’t think about her.

  John looked away. “What do you want Trevor.”

  “Someone is eliminating our assets,” said Trevor.

  “And this is my concern how?”

  “Whoever is doing this is very skilled, trained by the best.”

  “Sounds like an internal matter to me, why call me?” said John.

  “We put some of our best on apprehending the target; none of our people came back.”

  “What aren’t you telling me Trevor?”

  For the first time John saw Trevor’s composure slip.

  “This person can blur,” said Trevor, looking directly into John’s eyes.

  “Impossible.” said John.

  “We all thought so.” said Trevor.

  In a subdued voice John said almost to himself. “I was Nakamura Sensei’s last student. I only taught Kei and I saw her die. Your people are wrong. It’s clear you’re mistaken.”

  “You can see now why I am here. If it’s not you or someone you trained. Then we have a serious situation on our hands. We need you to secure the target, John. You’re probably the only one who can.” said Trevor slowly.

  Trevor pointed at the file and disc.

  “Everything we know is on that disc and in that folder. Call me after you review it.” said Trevor.

  Trevor stood to leave, dusting off his sleeve as he did so.

  “I really hope we are wrong about this John, maybe it’s like you said an internal matter. I don’t need to tell you the natural progression of things if this person isn’t stopped.”

  The words hung in the air.

  John knew what Trevor meant. If the target wasn’t stopped, he would factor high on the threat list; this meeting was a warning, a not so veiled threat, as it was a mission. Someone had to be held accountable and he fit the bill. John picked up the file and disc.

  “I’ll give you a call later.” said John.

  Trevor turned and headed to the door. Speaking into the hidden microphone embedded in his collar button. “He has the file, let’s see what he comes up with. Give him some room to move but stay close.”

  Trevor turned at the door and looked back at John, knowing the next time they met it could be as enemies.

  Chapter Two

  John grabbed the file and disc. He waited a moment for Trevor’s squad to leave the front of Starbucks, fully aware that a shadow group would be left behind to monitor his movements. He decided he would stay and wait for the post office across the street to open. It would be a two hour wait which gave him plenty of time to review the file.

  The first few pages were the usual- mission objectives, targets and locations. It wasn’t until the fourth page that it got interesting. Each time a target was to be eliminated, the asset met with a confrontation. In each case, and John counted five, each confrontation was fatal for the asset. He could understand one or two, but five? It was too many to be coincidence. John didn’t believe in coincidences.

  “Lisa, can I use your phone?” said John.

  “Sure John, you know where it is.”

  She pointed to the back with her chin. It wasn’t that John was a Luddite; he usually avoided carrying a cell phone and didn’t own a computer because he knew the tracking potential they posed. In his younger days he was an accomplished code breaker, and visited his local FedEx Kinkos on a regular basis to keep his keyboard skills sharp.

  John dialed a number; it took a minute before it rang. If they were tracing this call, they would see that he was calling Central Queens, when in reality; even he didn’t know where he was calling. All he knew was that he was calling the best.

  “Hello John, are you still drinking that slop water they call coffee? Switch to tea, man, tea.” John smiled.

  “Hello Mole. I have a disc I need you to take a look at.”

  Mole’s real name was Peter Cheung. He had been top of his class at M.I.T. when he graduated. An intuitive genius with anything technological, he was recruited right out of school and worked for Eclipse International for three years before he got too curious. Peter being Peter dug a little too deeply into his employer’s infrastructure. He was discovered and it was determined, he should take an early retirement.

  The job was given to John, who for the first time, rather than eliminate a target, saved one. It was right after losing Kei, and he knew then his days were numbered as an asset. He had saved Peter, staged his death and with Peter’s help erased any trace that Peter ever existed. He also gave Peter explicit instructions that would keep him alive as well as enough money to keep him comfortable and equipped with his latest gadgetry, Peter didn’t become the best by being sloppy. He was as formless as vapor and managed to stay under the radar and off the grid. Only John had a direct way of contacting him, a number that was routed through so many hubs it would take ten years to successfully trace it beyond the surface location of Central Queens. If they ever decided to follow the trace, it would lead them to a public telephone kiosk that ironically, had no telephone. Peter had gone underground and disappeared, becoming the Mole.

  “What kind of disc is it?” asked Mole.

  “Proof of something.” said John.

  “Proof of what?” said Mole

  “That’s the question of the hour.” said John

  Chapter Three

  “Sure John, I’ll take a look at it. Are you near a computer?” asked Mole.

  “Not yet, but I will be in –” John looked at his watch, an old Timex chronograph that kept perfect time, “ninety minutes. I just have to make one stop first.”

  “Ok John, you remember the procedure?”

  “I’m not quite that old, Mole,” said John.

  “Old enough grandpa, I’ll speak to you later.”

  And with that, Mole hung up. The entire conversation took fifteen seconds. John could see the sun creeping over the rooftops. It was going to be a sunny day. The few morning clouds would be burned away by mid-morning giving way to a bright summer day.

  John headed back into the main area of the Starbucks.

  “Thank you Lisa,” he said.

  “Anytime John,” she answered.

  Scrapping the post office idea, he decided he would head back home and walk the dog before he saw what was on the disc.

  “Leaving early today?” said Lisa.

  “Have a few errands to run, plus the dog gets cranky if I don’t get him out early.”

  Lisa smiled and John gave her a wave as he stepped out of the Starbucks. The baristas flirted with him shamelessly because they knew he would never take them seriously. He was old enough to be her father. He walked along 37th Avenue, heading towards 85th Street. Most of the stores along the avenue were still closed this early in the morning. In two hours the avenue would be full of patrons and people walking to the 82nd Street train station, to begin their morning commute. John really enjoyed Jackson Heights.

  It was a diverse neighborhood that mixed in a bit of every culture. From 75th St. down was Little India, where you could find most things Indian or South Asian. Between 75th and 95th, it was a mix of Latino, Jewish, and American culture, meshing and vying for expression in every way, from restaurants to community centers. It was no accident John had retired here at the ripe old age of thirty-five, which was old, considering his profession.

  No, he had moved here because his roots were in Jackson Heights. After being nomadic for so long, it felt good to put down roots somewhere. He also knew the inherent danger in being rooted, and was prepared to vanish if the occasion required it.

  On 85th Street, he turned left off 37th Avenue, heading to the residential area of 34th and 35th Avenues. His house, a corner lot on 85th and 34th Avenue was a detached Victorian. His entire block was landmarked as were many of the homes in Jackson Heights, which meant he could not alter the façade of the house without extensive paperwork, and even then it could be denied. He liked that aspect of his neighborhood, the old world feeling in the midst of the modern, the clash of old and new.
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  As he opened his door, he made his way to security panel, lifted the false keyboard and pressed his thumb into the screen. It was an alarm he installed, if tripped it would release an odorless and colorless gas, very much like carbon monoxide, without the fatal side effects. In a few minutes, any would-be intruder would be unconscious, unaware of what was happening. As John made his way to the living room, his dog, Storm padded over. Rescued by the North Shore Animal League, he picked him up as a pup. For a German shepherd, he was on the large side. He looked more wolf than dog and John felt that somewhere, Storm felt closer to being a wolf as well.

  They had an understanding. It wasn’t so much that John picked him but that they picked each other. Storm unlike other dogs did not jump up to greet his master but rather waited patiently for him to enter the house before he would pad over silently, and acknowledge John. If John had to describe the dog in on one word, it would be stoic. John grabbed the leash, even though he never used it, the leash was a signal, a routine they had developed. John would grab the leash and Storm would head to the door. John enjoyed walking with Storm; he felt a deep kinship with the animal. Sometimes it was easier to relate to animals than people. At least it was simpler. You always knew where you stood with an animal; guile was something relegated to people. John preferred dealing with animals. He walked around the block several times, allowing the surveillance teams to see him before he headed inside.

  The walks allowed him to think or solve tricky problems, while having Storm as an alert companion. It was one of the few times he could let his guard down partially. He walked back inside. Storm trailing behind him, and headed to the basement. He picked up the devices Mole made for him and walked to the nearest Fedex Kinkos store, located on 82nd Street and Northern Blvd. It was a 24 hour location which made more sense for the Kinkos side of the establishment than the Fedex. John couldn’t see the need in shipping something at 3am, but he was sure someone did. He walked to the counter and waited, he knew Jerry the night manager played video games at night on his laptop and it usually took a while for him to realize there was someone at the front counter. Business would pick up in an hour or so and Jerry would be relieved of his shift. After a few minutes Jerry came to the front.