Kidnap (The Billionaire Series) (11 page)

He dialled the number
next to the name at number one. It rang twice before it was answered.

“Who is this?” a man
answered abruptly.

“We need to talk.”

The line went silent,
the man at the other end recognised a voice he had not heard for fourteen years
and had never expected to hear again.

“REAPER, did you hear
me, I said we need to talk!” repeated the client.

Part Three

Chapter
21

One week later

Reaper had been told to be in New York before 9.00 a.m
..
He would receive a phone call and should be available to
meet anywhere in the Manhattan area within 30 minutes. The client was taking
security extremely seriously.

Reaper was both apprehensive and intrigued about the upcoming
meeting. He would finally put a face to the very intimidating voice from his
past.

Reaper had arrived the previous evening and as always, had
travelled light. He didn’t do luggage. He much preferred to be able to slip
away into the crowds the moment he disembarked a flight. If he ever needed
luggage, he shipped it ahead, in advance, to the ‘wrong’ hotel and would pick
it up on his arrival with apologies for the inconvenience caused.

 
He didn’t usually
meet clients face to face and this added to his concern over the meeting.
He normally only made contact by mobile phone or email.
His
latest mobile phone was impossible to track, trace or listen into but despite
this, he still used an elaborate network of forwarding devices and voice
scramblers to ensure ultimate security and anonymity. If email were required,
he used anonymous mail addresses, usually Hotmail accounts and always used
internet
cafes. He never worked from home and refused to
have a PC in any of his houses.

Reaper would not have lasted in the business for as long as he
had, had it not been for his fanatical secrecy. The existence of an
international super assassin was suspected. Police forces across the world had
failed to find any conclusive proof that any such person really existed. In the
twenty years that Reaper had been in operation, he had always ensured that the
modus operandi for each job differed, meaning no link could ever be made
between any of his jobs. His contracts came from around the world through
various networks. However, each network was unaware that its “hitter” worked
around the world under different identities. Only in the US, his home country,
was he known as Reaper. In Germany, he was Dieter. In Spain, he was Juan.
In England, Giles.
In Italy, Mario and so on. He had more
than
twenty five
identities and spoke almost as many
languages and dialects. He had, on more than one occasion, been contracted to
“hit” himself in another country. This was easily resolved. He would simply
take the money and hit the client who had issued the hit. He didn’t like people
who tried to kill him.

The mysterious client from fourteen years earlier had been his
most secretive. He had used even more elaborate security than the mega cautious
Reaper himself. All Reaper had managed to glean was that he was male and an
immensely powerful individual with connections at the highest levels across the
world. This was the only client upon whom Reaper could not take revenge if he
were ever
double crossed
.

Fourteen years earlier, he had thought twice about accepting the
contract and in hindsight, had wished he hadn’t. The coldness and emptiness of
the client when he had called Reaper after his monumental failure had struck
fear into him. The call had been very short and to the point.

“You failed me,” he said, replacing the receiver before Reaper
could speak.

The call had not been made to his mobile but to the bedside phone
of a
motel which
, to this day, he believed nobody
could possibly have traced.

Reaper had no intention of giving his own appearance away to the
client and had taken adequate precautions by “borrowing” some clothes from a
tramp in the toilets of Central Station. The clothes were too short but bulky
enough to hide Reaper’s toned physique and their aroma certainly added to his
cover. Passers-by visibly choked at the alcohol and urine fumes. To complete
his new look, he’d grown a beard to give
himself
a
dirty unshaven appearance and wore a hat to cover his hair. He also carried a
bottle of cheap wine wrapped in brown paper.
Reaper had gone
,
a tramp replaced him
.

The phone call came at 10.30 a.m.

“Waldorf hotel, 11.00 a.m., get in the driver’s seat of a black
car
which’ll
flash its headlights three times.” The
caller hung up as soon as he was finished.

Reaper smiled, it was only five blocks away.

He made his way to the Waldorf Hotel, stumbling along the street
and mumbling to himself along the way. Unbeknownst to all around him, he was
scrutinising and analysing their every move. He scanned the traffic, checking
for any
vehicles which
re-appeared or hung around
suspiciously.

The car arrived bang on schedule and as agreed, the headlights
flashed three times and the driver exited the vehicle, making his way to a
diner across the street as if to pick up coffee and donuts. Reaper kicked
himself at how stupid his disguise was. A drunken tramp climbing into the
driver’s seat of any car would be suspicious but a drunken tramp climbing into
the driver’s seat of a
Maybach
, the world’s most
expensive
limousine,
was farcical. Why was it these
things only happened with this client? Reaper never made mistakes. Even
fourteen years later, the client still made him nervous and edgy. He didn’t
like it.

The car was completely black, not just the paintwork but also the
windows. In fact, it gave the impression that there were no windows just black
bodywork. Reaper waited until there was a lull in the foot traffic before he
leapt across the pavement, around the bonnet, jumped into the driver’s seat and
before the door was even shut, he’d gunned the engine and was half a block
away. Nobody had had time to take in what had happened.

“Hello Reaper,” came the sullen voice from the speakers.

Reaper turned around and came nose to nose with a black screen.
The front of the car was completely separated from the rear. He couldn’t and
wouldn’t see the client.

“Hello.”

“Rather inappropriate dress, don’t you think?” asked the client
laughing.

“It does the job,” replied Reaper not in the mood for humour.

Reaper continued north along Park Avenue. Fortunately, even the
front windows were blacked out so nobody could see that a tramp was driving the
$350,000 car.

“Whatever makes you happy. Now, if you look to your right, you
will see a package. Those are your instructions which include all the plans
you’ll...”

“Wait a minute, a week ago, you just said you wanted to talk?”
interrupted Reaper.

“I don’t like being interrupted,” replied the client ominously,
before continuing. “As I was saying, the package contains all the plans you’ll
need. I don’t want to go into detail here, suffice to say that everything you
need, including target identities and locations are in the package. Are we
clear?”

“Look, I’m very selective about the jobs I take, I can’t promise
anything other than I’ll have a look at and let you know, OK?” replied Reaper,
knowing he would have a quick look see what the guy was up to and say no
thanks. He didn’t want anything more to do with this client.

“Let me make this clear,” said the client, adopting his more ominous
tone. ”You have been recommended to me AGAIN as the best and quite frankly that
is the only reason you have been allowed to live for the last fourteen years.”

“What the hell do you mean ‘allowed to live’?” said Reaper
angrily. He had had
enough,
nobody talked to him like
this. The meeting was
over,
he pulled over to the kerb
and said in his own ominous tone.

“Don’t underestimate me.” He stopped the car and began to open
the door.

“Oh, I don’t, Matt.”

Reaper froze as the client said his real name. Pictures began to
flash on the screen in the central console. The pictures were of Reaper, his
homes, his fake id’s, his mother, in fact everything he thought nobody knew.

“Matt
Heinrich, born 3
^rd
March 1963 to Mary
Heinrich, father unknown, in Columbus Ohio,” continued the client.

“How do you know this?” said Reaper almost whispering.

“I know everything. Now close the door and start driving,” the
client commanded.

In a daze, Reaper obeyed.

Reaper was in shock. Nobody knew his background. His mother died
when he was five years old. He’d spent most of his life in children’s homes,
generally escaping and being moved to more secure facilities. At the age of
fourteen, he had escaped for good and at the age of sixteen, had managed to
fake his way into the army despite being a year too young. It was there that he
found his true calling. He was ruthless, showed no mercy and was enveloped in a
coldness that was ideal for some very special work. He was soon identified as a
candidate for special projects. He continued to impress his trainers and after
only a year, was moved into a highly secret division specialising in ‘black
operations’.
 

Within two years, he had proven himself to be one of the best
operatives ever recruited. He was an exceptional linguist, with an amazing ear,
which allowed him not only to learn languages
but
to
speak them like a native. His talent and lack of conscience chilled even the
hardest commanders. His training covered
fieldcraft
and techniques taught across the world’s Special Forces.
Reaper
had been described by his commanders
as a perfect killing machine. Not
only was his training second to none
but
he had
extraordinary physical attributes. He was six foot four, weighed seventeen
stone and was built of solid muscle. Despite his physical enormity, he was
light on his feet. He was a superb athlete capable of running both the marathon
and the hundred metres in
times which
would qualify
for the Olympics.
 

Reaper was no brainwashed
fool,
he did
not care about flag and country. Nobody had ever cared for him and he knew that
his talents and skills were extremely marketable. After six years in the
services, he decided it was time to move on, although he knew that officially
that was not an option. His talents did not allow exit from Special Services other
than feet first. He was too dangerous to be let loose into civilian life. After
more than six months of planning, he did leave the service, feet first.
Everybody believed he and four of his colleagues had died on a routine mission
when their helicopter crashed into the sea. No bodies were ever found in the
shark infested
waters. He had planned the accident down to
the last detail. A small fishing boat was stationed not far from the point at
which he had ditched the helicopter. The boat was found drifting close to shore
by the coastguard shortly after Reaper’s escape. The ship’s captain had died of
an apparent heart attack, thus leaving no link to Reaper and the crash.

He changed his appearance by undergoing lengthy and painful
plastic surgery. He then set up his operations making contact with the
underworld across the globe. He took on any job and collateral damage was not
an issue to him. If the target’s children were caught up in the action, so be
it. As long as the target was eliminated, nothing else mattered. This had upset
a number of clients over the years whose conscience could not cope with
innocent deaths. But as far as Reaper was concerned, they were simply
casualties of war and the clients were weak.

The pictures before him were on a loop. There were pictures of
him when he was a baby with his mother,
mugshots
of
when he was arrested as a juvenile, army photos, a number of shots of him over
the previous two months and most recently photos of him entering the toilets in
Grand Central Station as Reaper and exiting as a tramp.

“But how?” was all he could say.

“Let’s just say I have some very talented colleagues. Now let’s
continue with your mission,” said the client.

Reaper was silent, wondering how he could have been followed
without knowing.

“You leave me no choice. Or do you?” he asked quietly.

“Of course you have a choice
”
offered
the client. “Take the job and you’ll never need to work again. Or, consider
yourself finished.”

“Then you leave me no option but to accept,” replied Reaper.
“Excellent. I knew you would come around to my way of thinking. Now, as I was
saying, the package to your right contains everything you will need. It also
contains access to funds deposited in a number of countries under your various
aliases. The value of the successful completion of this mission is worth
billions to me. Therefore, on successful completion, you will receive $20
million dollars and my sincere gratitude. Failure, however, is unthinkable and
will lose me as much as I stand to gain. Let’s be explicitly clear, therefore,
failure is not an option. The world is not large enough for you to hide should
that be the case.”