Murray McDonald - Kidnap

“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.”

“OK, that’s clear,” replied Reaper nonchalantly, he could hardly believe it. $20 million for one job!

“Good. Now back to the funds. Besides your personal fee, you’ll need additional monies to carry out the mission. I’ve deposited another $20 million dollars but should you need any more, just ask. Whatever you need, you will get.”

“$20 million? What the hell will I need that for?” he asked snapping out of his own $20million trance.

“This is no simple mission. Once you read the contents of the package, you’ll understand. This is not a solo mission and you’ll probably need a small army to pull it off. Trust me, you’re going to earn your $20 million fee.”

“I now prefer to work alone and after the events of fourteen years ago, it has proved a wise choice.”

“Tough. This is not a solo mission. Just do what you have to do to get the job done. Now pull over here and get out.”

“What, here? What about your driver?” said Reaper looking around to see where they were exactly.

“He’s behind us.”

As Reaper pulled over to the kerb and got out, a car screeched to a stop behind them. The chauffeur jumped out and got into the Maybach pulling away instantly. Reaper was left standing, holding a package which could result in riches beyond his wildest dreams or, his death.

Reaper was desperate to find out what mission could possibly justify a $20 million price tag. However he’d have to wait, he couldn’t open the package in the middle of the street. He rushed back to his small, anonymous hotel room and ripped the package open.

It contained two envelopes, one labelled ‘Mission’ and one labelled ‘Reaper’. He opened the Reaper one first. It contained a secure mobile phone with the instructions that Speed Dial One was for the client, a number of passports for him with new identities and the bank account details for the $20 million expenses. He then opened the ‘Mission’ package and began to smile. It contained a number of schematics, photographs, a typewritten dossier of objectives and the criteria for the successful completion of the mission.

Reaper put the package down, he could not believe it. $20 million to kill the Kennedys, his wildest dreams had come true.

One week later

Reaper had spent the previous week preparing his plan for the mission and trying to find out a little more about the client. The revelation that the client knew Reaper’s background had really knocked him and he needed to know who he was.

Following the meeting at the Waldorf, Reaper had noted down the registration of the Maybach and checked the owner’s details. The owner was John Doe, residing at Greyer Top Road, New York. Reaper could find no such road listed anywhere in New York State nor in the US and the name John Doe was the name given to any male in the US of unknown identity. It was not until later that night that Reaper realised his client was not to be fooled with. The address, Greyer Top Road, was an anagram of GOOD TRY REAPER. The client had registered a $350,000 car in a false name and address for just one meeting.