“Merriam Killinger. I have a reservation,” said a mysterious man to the clerk after walking into one of the world’s finest motels. The clerk at the front desk smiled as she reached for his identification. The man politely handed over his passport. As she opened one of the small safes, located behind the front desk, the woman handed him a key-card that would unlock a room located just below one of the penthouse suites, “You may retrieve this upon your departure Mr. Killinger.” Merriam was sure to notice the tag on the clerks blouse, “Thank you very much miss Walker.”
Merriam turned and walked toward the elevator with his metal briefcase in hand. He pressed one of the buttons to call the elevator and waited patiently for its dissent.
“Ding,” the elevator signaled, at a moderate volume, that it had arrived. Merriam entered and pressed the button that would cause the elevator to take him to the floor that was second from the top of the building. When the elevator arrived, he exited and proceeded to the room that he had previously requested. Merriam placed his card in the slot next to the door and removed it quickly and smoothly. The green light, which was located on the device, lit up for a brief moment, and Merriam opened the door and walked into his room.
Immediately after entering, Mr. Killinger placed the standard “Do not disturb” sign on the handle to the room door and shut it, locking both the deadbolt and the small chain link. He placed his metal brief case on the table that was located in the small kitchen area, and walked to the glass wall that allowed him to see what was happening outdoors. He looked down and saw three telecommunications vehicles: the white van with the stereotypical double doors in back and blacked out windows on the cab. He suspected that at least one of these vans belonged to Central Intelligence.
Merriam closed the shades that covered the entire glass wall, quickly walked into the kitchen, and turned on one of the lamps. He slid the briefcase that he had carried in across the counter until it was under the light and placed his right thumb on the digital fingerprint scanner that was on the case. The latches on the briefcase popped open.
Merriam opened the briefcase to the picture of a man with a receding hairline and wearing a suit jacket. The picture looked as if it had been taken from a satellite. Under the picture rested a typed note, addressed to Merriam. He picked it up and looked over the words.
“George Monestrafa is the majority owner of the Monesteel Corporation. He inherited fifty-one percent of the company’s shares from his father. Monestrafa has been feeding much of his earnings through a non-profit anarchist organization that call themselves the Anti-Strong-Arm. By now, you may have noticed that this is a man of high priority. The Central Intelligence Agency has been investigating his connection with the A-S-A group, or groups. Last week, we received notice that there had been a terrorist attack on Edwards Air Force Base, near Lancaster. This attack killed twenty-six of our service men and women. We believe that a member of an A-S-A group was the one who carried out the attack. We still do not know who planned it. Our sources tell us that someone outside the group, or groups, must have been the mastermind behind the entire plot. In fact, we believe that there is more to the plan. We also believe that George Monestrafa is one of needed pieces to make that plan a reality. The accidental death of this man is essential. Ninety-eight of the A-S-A’s funding comes from this man, and his death would give the CIA authority to investigate further. This task is essential for the security of our homeland, but outside the jurisdiction of our government. Keep freedom alive Mr. Killinger.”
The document was signed with a black handprint. The case also contained a black, silenced, nine-millimeter handgun and the picture of a Bugatti Veyron with a key. Merriam placed the firearm in the back of his pants after checking to make sure that it was loaded, and that the safety was engaged. He burned the paper that had contained the notes and the pictures. Merriam removed his jet-black p-coat and fedora, placing them on one of the chairs in the kitchen.
Merriam left his room and walked outside using the revolving door in the lobby. He found the vehicle that he had seen in the picture and placed his briefcase behind the driver’s seat. He walked around the massive building so that he could locate where every camera might be. Among other thoughts flashing through Killinger’s mind was the question, “Why does the Black Hand issue assignments individualni rad?” After checking around the entire perimeter of the building, Merriam walked down the street toward a small office supply store.
The phone rang in George Monestrafa’s penthouse suite. Mr. Monestrafa reached over to the table next to the chair in which he sat reading and picked up the phone.
“Hello,” he said in his popular Italian-American rasp
“Mr. Monestrafa. You have a package waiting for you. Should I send it to your suite with your next meal?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Meanwhile, Merriam Killinger returned to his room to collect his things. After putting on his coat and hat, he made his way to the front desk in the lobby where miss Walker still sat.
“I had an emergency come up and I am going to have to check out,” Merriam said as he flashed a slightly flirtatious smile.
The woman sitting at the front desk reached for his passport as he handed her his room key, “Would you like us to keep the room available?”
“As sad as it makes me that I won’t get to see your beautiful face again, I am afraid I will not be able to return. Securing assets can be difficult work.”
“That is why I keep a simple job Mr. Killinger. Have a good evening.”
Merriam reached for his passport, gently sliding his thumb against miss Walker’s hand as he pulled away and turned toward the door.
“Ding.” Mr. Monestrafa stood up from his chair so that he could open the door to his room.
“Thank you,” he said to the young boy who brought up his food and his package.
Sitting back in his chair, he opened the package that had been delivered. In it was a small box and a few pictures. First, he removed the pictures so he could examine them. On each picture were portrayals of the different vehicles that Merriam had earlier suspected of affiliation with the CIA. Monestrafa turned the photos over and saw that someone had written on the back of one with a red fine-point pen.
“You are being monitored by the U.S. CIA. You are suspected of an affiliation with a terrorist group that was involved with an attack, killing 26 members of the U.S. Air Force. I have a way out, but you need to act quickly. Open the box that was included in this package…”
Mr. Monestrafa kept his place as he opened the small box. In the box he found a silenced nine-millimeter pistol, and a small lighter. He turned back to the words on the backside of the picture.
“… Fire 3 rounds into one of the pieces of furniture after burning these instructions. There is no doubt that you are being bugged. The CIA will hear the sound from the gunshots and have probable cause to enter the room. That is what they are waiting for.”
Mr. Monestrafa moved to the next photo so that he could read the remaining instructions.
“Please do not kill any agents. I you do, I will not be able to help. After alerting the agents downstairs, get in the elevator and go one floor below where you are. Agents will then use both the elevator and the stairs to get to your suite. After you hear the elevator go back up to your floor, call it again and go to the lobby. This will create minimal opposition for you. Exit the lobby and turn right. Move around the side of the building and get in the passenger side of the red and yellow car with the blacked out windows. See you in 20 Minutes Mr. Monestrafa.”
Monestrafa stood up and walked toward the garbage can, carrying the lighter and the instructions. One flame sparked as he moved his thumb across the head of the lighter and the pictures slowly burned. After the picture had finished burning, Mr. Monestrafa let the ashes fall into the can. He walked back over to the package he had previously opened and retrieved the handgun from within. He pointed it toward the chair, in which he usually sat, and fired three times into its cushion. The gun was quiet enough not to be heard by the neighboring rooms, but loud enough that those listening would hear if the room was bugged.
Monestrafa then walked quickly toward the elevator. He pressed the button and heard the elevator begin to move. When it arrived, about thirty seconds after, he stepped in and traveled to the floor below. Shortly after he got out, the elevator began to move again. He looked at the handgun that he had been provided with, and decided to keep it in his hand. What was only a few minutes seemed like almost an hour as Monestrafa waited to hear the elevator move passed his current floor. When he did, he quickly pressed the button, calling the elevator to him. He only hoped that they were not holding that elevator on the floor above. Luckily, the elevator arrived on his floor with no one in it. Monestrafa made his way to the lobby.
When the elevator door opened, he saw two agents with their guns pointed toward the elevator. One of them spoke harshly, “George Monestrafa! Drop the gun!”
Mr. Monestrafa held the handgun out as if he planned to drop it, but Merriam Killinger appeared from somewhere in the background before he got the chance. Merriam quickly, and smoothly, kicked the back of one agent’s knee sending him to the ground. In the same motion, he grasped the hands of the other agent, paralyzing them from pulling the trigger, and punched him on the right side of his face. As that agent fell, the first agent reached for the gun that he had dropped and pointed it toward Merriam. Merriam turned and threw the gun, which he had obtained from the other agent. It hit the first agent in the face, rendering him unconscious.
Merriam turned and walked quickly through the revolving door that led into the lobby. Mr. Monestrafa followed noticing the still living bodies of different agents laying on the ground outside the door. A crowd watched as Killinger and Monestrafa turned to the right, went around the corner of the building. The two men entered the sports car that sat next to the large building, and Merriam gently rested his foot on the gas pedal.
As they passed in front of the building, they saw the agents that had gone up the stairs and the elevator coming out of the door. One of them held his hand up to his ear and began to speak.
“What is your plan?” Monestrafa looked across the cab as the European Sports car raced through the American city streets.
Killinger, keeping his attention on the road, replied, “What plan?”
Monestrafa turned his head so that he was looking out of the passenger side window.
When the two approached the edge of the city, they noticed that there was a blockade awaiting them. Three rows of vehicles belonging to a federal agency cut across the road. Agents squatted behind the third row of cars.
Merriam drifted to his right, around the street corner two blocks before.
The agents watched. Thy had blocked the only way out of the city in the direction that Monestrafa had come. After about thirty seconds, Agents filled some of the cars in the row closest to the city. They went looking for the Bugatti Veyron.
Merriam pointed his car toward a river close to where the roadblock had been, unbuckled, and said, “Hold on.”
Monestrafa did not know what to hold on to, but he readjusted himself so that he was firmer in his seat. Merriam held out his right hand while he kept the vehicle steady with his left, “Give me your gun.” Monestrafa handed Merriam the silenced gun that he had used to instigate the current situation.
Merriam gripped the gun and used it to hit Monestrafa just under the chin, so that he began to choke. As Monestrafa leaned forward holding his throat, Merriam hit him once more in the back of the head. Monestrafa fell limp in the passenger seat of the vehicle.
As Merriam drew closer to the river, he quickly checked to make sure Monestrafa was not wearing a seat belt, and slightly cracked the passenger side window.
Merriam placed the gun in the backside of his pants. He launched the vehicle into the river, opening his door slightly just before the vehicle made impact with the face of the water.
The agents at the roadblock watched as the Veyron crashed against the face of the water: first floating slightly, then sinking at an exponential rate.
Merriam waited until the vehicle was completely submerged and violently filling with water before forcing his door completely open and exiting the vehicle.
The story ran on many large news networks the following morning.
“Yesterday evening. A man named George Monestrafa drowned to death after evading police and causing serious injury to several public service employees. In a failed attempt to escape, Monestrafa drove his Bugatti Veyron into a river on the East side of the city. No further information has been released on the subject, but some of our sources tell us that Monestrafa may have been an accomplice in the Edwards Air Force Base Bombing. He was seen by witnesses leaving the penthouse, where three gun shots were heard, with another person. No one knows who this person was, but authorities are trying to locate him.”
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