The Final Mission Conclusion
By: P.G. Barnett
Tags: Fiction Story, Henry And Sunny, Short Fiction, Short Story, Fiction

My name is Sunny Alexander-Johnson. And I’m Henry James, and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9

When the hood was removed from Samual Donaldson’s head, the man blinked furiously and stared about. He was secured to a solitary chair, a single light bulb hanging over him from the ceiling. The room possessed more shadows than what the feeble light could chase away. Directly in front of him, a video camera rested on a tripod, the lens pointing in his direction. A red light indicated the camera was on, recording every action taking place.

From the shadows, a person clothed in black, a hood covering their face, stepped forward and rested the edge of a machete against Donaldson’s shoulder at the base of the man’s neck.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

From speakers lost in the ceiling above, a mechanical, robotic voice crackled.

“Hello, Mr. Donaldson. So good of you to join us.”

“Who the hell are you people? It would be best if you let me go, or there will be hell to pay. I’m sure by now, the entire D.C. police force is looking for me.”

“Yes, unfortunately, they will not know where to look. And when they do find you, they will be unable to do anything but collect pieces of your body. And the best part? America will be able to witness as we separate your arms, your legs, and then your head from your body. Everyone will see we mean business.”

“What do you want. Money? I’ve got plenty of it.”

“Tell us about SF496DF.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Never heard of it.”

“Sister?”

The person standing behind Donaldson slid the machete off Samual’s shoulder and drew it back.

“Stop. Wait. Okay, I know about it. What do you want to know?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t need you now, would I? We would have already dissected your head from your body and left you on the streets for the hungry dogs and vermin living in this city of yours.”

“Okay, okay. Uh, SF496DF, was a special tactical mission. Special Forces battalion 496 Delta Force. Colonel David Anthony Armstrong headed it up.”

As if that would appease the voice, Samual Donaldson halted, swallowing hard, and at the same time fixing his gaze on the glint of light against the blade his would-be assassin held in her hands.

“Sister?”

The woman in coal-black garb raised the machete again.

“It was supposed to be a liberation mission. Armstrong and his men were supposed to go into the compound of Enrique Escobar and extract one of our operatives. But the mission went south. Escobar killed everyone.”

“But he didn’t did he?”

“What?”

“Escobar didn’t kill everyone, did he? Some of the people escaped didn’t they? And it made Escobar furious, didn’t it? Because he’d paid a lot of money to your inside operative and also to you for the information of that mission, didn’t he Mr. Donaldson?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Samual flinched as he saw his assassin raise the machete above her head.

“Alright, alright. Escobar used Hardcastle to come to me. He and she wanted to make a deal. With Armstrong and his men out of the way, it would pave the way for an expansion of his drug cartel. Armstong had been a major pain in his ass for years.”

“How much?”

“Twenty million. Wired to my private account in the Caymans.”

“So you sold out American soldiers for your blood money. And then?”

“Somehow Hardcastle got out of there. It wasn’t until I heard from her that I found out Armstrong had escaped.”

“But it didn’t stop there, did it, Mr. Donaldson?”

Donaldson hung his head and sobbed once.

“I believe you have a saying in your country. Confession is good for the soul?”

The man nodded, then raised his head.

“Escobar told Hardcastle and me he wanted Armstrong’s head on a platter. David’s team had handed out their fair share of death to Escobar’s people as they fought their way out. Escobar threatened he’d turn over what he knew to the authorities. Hardcastle and I would have gone to prison for espionage. I couldn’t let that happen.”

“So you and Hardcastle took care of things, didn’t you?”

“We thought we had. Hardcastle managed to track Armstrong down somehow, and to this day, I still don’t know how she did it. It seemed that he’d changed his face and identity and was living in Austin, Texas. So we, well, through previous encounters with members of the Triad, we got in touch.”

“What happened to Armstrong?”

“The fucking assholes didn’t even manage to get to him. He was going by the name of Rick Mcdonnell. Hardcastle had tracked him down. She called me, and I ordered the hit. These stupid fucks raided his house with the intent to kill him, and when they discovered he wasn’t there, knocked off his wife and two boys.”

There were several seconds of silence after that as Samual Donaldson nervously fidgeted against his restraints, knowing if he made one wrong move, his head would just as quickly be toppling to the floor between his feet.”

The voice sounded again, but this time it wasn’t a garbled electronic mess.

“Well, Samual, I believe we’ve got all we need.”

“Armstrong?”

“Not anymore, Sam. And if I were you, I wouldn’t be making any plans on spending that money. Where you’re going, you’re probably not going to need it. It’s not every day the Director of the FBI confesses to conspiracy to commit murder and espionage on national television. That camera in front of you, Sammy boy? Direct feed to every local television station in the country. Oh, and my people even piped in a feed to the FBI building. You ought to be quite a celebrity by now.”

“But.”

“Let’s get him out of here and drop him off at the J Edgar Hoover building. I’m betting a lot of people are going to welcome him with open arms.”

The would-be assassin bent at the waist to untie Donaldson, just as the door to the room swung open. It was all Donaldson needed by way of distraction to yank the machete out of the sheath on her hip and push her away. He began to flail the air in front of him as if he intended to hack his way to freedom. Seconds later, the report of a pistol cracked in the silence, and Samual Donaldson dropped the machete then spun from the kick of a bullet striking him just below his right shoulder.

“Damn princess, I didn’t even know you had a gun.”

“Yeap Henry, Robert’s been teaching me to shoot.”

“Well, looks like you need to train more. You missed his head completely.”

“Uh, unlike you, old man, I had no intention of killing him. I intended to hit him in the shoulder, and I hit him in the shoulder.”

“You two going to stand there all day and let this dude bleed out?”

“Be my guest, Manny. Why don’t you and Robert get him in a car then dump him at the nearest emergency room? Rick? Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Henry.”

“Is that good for you?”

“Yeah, just give the name of the hospital. The final part of this mission will be a call to the police department, and then we’re out of here, by the way. Nice shooting, Shaundrika. Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Remind me never to say yes to one of your hair brained spy missions.”

“Hey, they ain’t so bad. I’m mean with all this talent we got what’s the…”

Both Shaundrika and Rick McDonnell chimed in.

“Shut up, James.”

Thank you so much for reading. You didn’t have to, but we’re certainly glad you did.

Let’s keep in touch: Sharon and P.G. Barnett

paul@pgbarnett.com

© P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.