Walsh’s eyes narrowed as he straightened up.
“Look, I’m losing my patience. What do I have to do to show you I mean business?” Walsh slammed his fist into Winslow’s chest. Richard Winslow bent forward in pain as far as his restraints would allow. He did not cry out.
Breathless, Winslow coughed. His eyes stung from the rivulets of sweat that poured from his brow and soaked through his blindfold. “You guys have the wrong person. I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Believe me. Please believe me.”
The third man, Bill Sorenson, looked through Winslow’s wallet and picked out a snapshot of a young blond woman in her late twenties with two small children. The color photograph, obviously taken in a studio, seemed to be of recent vintage given the clothes the subjects were wearing.
“Lovely family, Mr. Winslow,” said Sorenson. “Just help us and you can go home to them soon.”
“Look, you’ve got the wrong guy. I haven’t done anything to you. Look, if it’s money you want, I don’t have much, but what I have you can have — just let me go.”
“Don’t toy with us, Winslow,” said Walsh. “We know you’re with CSAC and that you have information critical to us. We want it. What is so damn important about that information that you’re willing to die for it?”
“Die? Look, I would tell you everything you want, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What the hell is this Seasack? I’ve never heard of it. All I know is that I was answering a message at the Minneapolis airport when I passed out. Somebody grabbed my arms. The next thing I know, I’m tied to this chair. I’m blindfolded, and you two are asking me crazy things. Give me a break.”
“Mr. Winslow, let’s review the facts. First, you’re a special courier carrying a message of the highest secrecy. Second, we know that you boarded Northwest Flight 8 at SeaTac Airport in Seattle at 11:40 a.m. destined for Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, where you were supposed to board Northwest Flight 361 for Washington National Airport at 6:05 p.m. It was almost five o’clock before we were able to catch up with you at the airport. Finally, the message that you’re carrying is of vital importance to my leaders.”
Winslow vigorously shook his head in denial and in doing so his blindfold came undone, falling to his lap in a loose pile of cloth. Blinking from the light in the room, Winslow was startled to look into the pale blue eyes of his tormentor.
“Fool.” Walsh abruptly turned to Sorenson with a cold, violent stare. “I told you to tie that blindfold firmly.”
Sorenson stood silently. Walsh was his commander; he knew that protesting would have little use.
There was little more that could be done. A thorough search of Winslow’s clothing and briefcase had revealed nothing to suggest that Winslow was anything but what he said he was. While Winslow was unconscious, Sorenson had the abominable job of conducting a complete body and cavity search of Winslow. The search had revealed nothing more than the body of a normal middle-aged Caucasian male with the usual bumps, bruises and scars one normally accumulates after more than forty years on this Earth.
Maybe they had taken the wrong guy, Walsh thought.
Another thought entered Walsh’s mind.
Maybe this was a trap. By allowing him and Sorenson to take this agent, the Americans might already be on their tracks. After all, the enemy could have set up the leader. Maybe he was already under custody — maybe even dead.
In retrospect, Walsh decided that the operation had gone far too smoothly. This had to be a trap.
Walsh turned to Winslow. “So the enemy has made us, have they?”
“Look, buddy, I really don’t know you or anything. Please let me go.” Winslow strained at his bindings to no avail.
Walsh walked across the room, entered the adjacent bedroom, and went directly to a dresser. He slowly drew on a pair of leather driving gloves. From the top left drawer Walsh picked up a Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. He then loaded six hollow point shells into the weapon.
Seeing what Walsh was doing, Sorenson took him by his arm and whispered, “Wait a minute. We’re supposed to question this guy, not kill him.”
“He knows too much. Besides, this is a trap. We’ve got to cut our losses. Know your place! I’m making this decision; you have no basis to question my judgment. Just do your job.”
Sorenson knew that Walsh was right. He could not question his leader; he had to do his job. His throat felt parched as he watched Walsh walk out of the bedroom.
Walsh walked into the room in which Winslow was tied to the chair and said, “Mr. Winslow, I’m afraid that you have become a burden.”
Winslow looked up into the pale blue eyes that showed no emotion.
“I’m not who you want. I don’t know what you want. Please let me go, I’ve got a family, really.”
With studied indifference, Walsh placed the muzzle of the revolver to Winslow’s left temple. Winslow, tears forming in his eyes, made one final plea.
“Why are you doing this to me? Why?”
Walsh gently squeezed the trigger sending a .357 Magnum hollow point slug racing down the barrel of his revolver. The bullet crashed into Richard Winslow’s left temple, jerking his head rightward — a look of utter surprise on his face. The shock of the bullet ripping into Winslow’s temple caused intense pain. Each synapse screamed terribly as it went through its death throes. The pain — the utter pain, the likes of which Winslow had never known and would never know again. Winslow looked as if he was about to say something, the only sound emitting from the screaming hole that was his mouth being, “MAAAAAA!”
As the bullet shattered Richard Winslow’s skull and penetrated the subdural membrane of his brain, he briefly experienced an intense bright light. This was followed immediately by a flood of red as the blood vessels in the retina of his eyes exploded from the pressure. As the bullet, now deformed by its collision with Winslow’s skull, crashed into Winslow’s left frontal lobe, the instant flash of red was replaced by blackness. Richard Winslow no longer existed.
The bullet continued its deadly course, tearing a wide path through the grayish white tissue of Winslow’s brain and finally blowing a large portion of the right frontal portion of his skull and facial skin away from his head. Blood, grayish white brain tissue and small shards of what was formerly Richard Winslow’s skull blasted out of the cavity that used to be his face, leaving the characteristic exit crater, spraying the floor and the adjacent wall in a grotesque, red, white and gray Jackson Pollock design, a brilliant abstraction of Navajo sand art.
The bullet finally came to rest in the wall of the room directly across from the now fatally comatose man. His body remained seated on and bound to the cold, metal kitchen chair.
As the bullet completed its grisly task, the body of the former Richard Winslow slumped forward, held to the chair by the ropes that held him in his final hours of life. His arms remained tied behind him. Although his brain had ceased to function, his heart continued to spasmodically pulse, sending waves and waves of bright crimson blood gushing from the gaping head wound. The spreading pool of thick, slippery blood quickly expanded its grip on the dirty wooden and torn linoleum floor.
“Bill, get some gasoline from the garage.”
Sorenson was overwhelmed and sickened by what he had just witnessed, but was conditioned to comply with Walsh’s orders. He staggered out of the room. Reaching the front door and grabbing the doorframe with his left hand, Sorenson doubled over and retched, convulsively. His head buzzed from the loud report of the .357 Magnum revolver.
Nauseated and sweating profusely, Sorenson walked slowly over to the garage to find the five-gallon gasoline can. Nothing in his training had prepared Sorenson for this situation. His training had included dealing with death and even having to take a life, but that was all theoretical. He had never seen death and certainly not violent death. This was supposed to be a game, like a chess match. As an agent, his duty was to serve his rulers in their territorial goals. Goals not meant to be questioned. Goals to be sought blindly. His mission was to execute the plan. The plan and the metrics of its success were for others — the leaders, the planners, not Bill Sorenson.