Fear The Wrath Of The Reaper

Walking into his sparsely furnished apartment late on a Thursday night Jackson Mills was exhausted after a long week and what felt like an even longer debriefing. Hours of questions and nothing changed. The job was done, nobody was the wiser, and he was finally back stateside just to be pulled off a plane by the Smith squad, two innocuous agents sent to escort him. They were little more than the director's personal errand boys, neither of them being more than thirty, and this was probably their first assignment out of the office.

Jackson threw his bags down on the floor and walked over to his bed on the opposite side of the loft he desperately needed to furnish. He kept a sofa, a tv stand with a big flat screen, a bed, three towels, a shower curtain, and an ample supply of takeout and deliver menus at the ready. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he turned on a lamp on the bedside table. Fumbling around in the drawer, he found a pack of stale cigarettes and a lighter. Jackson lit one and enjoyed a long breath of the fragrant smoke from the Turkish blend of tobacco.

This was his routine after an assignment, and this was an assignment that required his special skills. Jackson was a specialist at infiltrations, acquisitions, and eliminations. His codename in the field was Reaper and it was a name he earned over a ten-year career. Coming home, he was always stoic and alone for the first few days. Forgetting the faces of the men he killed, wrapping his head around the actions he took in the field, kept him up at night. Tonight, he was exhausted. This had been the most hectic turn of events on a mission that he'd seen since he was recruited.

He slipped off his shoes, letting them drop next to his bed, and pulled off his jacket. Taking the Beretta off of his hip he set it down on the table and fell backward into his mattress. It had been an extremely long sixty-hours since he last slept, and every bone in his body ached from exhaustion. Letting out a loud sigh, he reminded himself that he was not too old for this life.

"BUZZ, BUZZ, BUZZ!"

Jackson slammed his hand down on the top of his alarm clock, fumbling to find the silence button. Failing to find it, he grabbed it and tossed it toward the wall opposite the foot of his bed. It crashed and broke into a dozen pieces, most landing in a pile where the last three alarm clocks went to die. He was not a morning person, often considering shooting someone in the mornings if they were too noisy, intrusive, or there when he wanted them to leave the night before.

As he laid there, still in his clothes from the night before, he moaned about the time. Jetlag from the time changes the past three days had officially caught up with him. From Moscow to Paris, Paris to Rome, Rome to Angiers, and Tangiers to Germany before catching a flight to England, he'd seen more of the inside of airplanes that he had in his entire thirty-seven years. The timing of the job was rushed but somehow he had managed to infiltrate the Kremlin, invade the home of the German Chancellor, and escape Tangiers after stealing a computer hard drive from the hackers he was sent to investigate. Now, it was in the hands of the politicians, as they set out to answer a question that nobody had ever asked with sincerity, much less come up with a solution for.

"Knock, Knock, Knock."

Three loud pounds on his front door woke him the rest of the way. He groaned as he looked at his watch. It was only 7:30 in the morning. There was nobody other than the agency that knew he was even back in the states. Jackson reached for his pistol and held it at his side as he went to the door. Looking through the glass he couldn't see anyone. His senses were still heightened after days of being on the run so he tucked his gun in front of him as he opened the door to the loft ever so slightly.

"What the hell?" he asked aloud. There was nobody there. There were kids in the building but they didn't strike him as the type, especially at this hour. Then, he noticed it. At his feet sat a suspicious package wrapped in brown paper. There was no card on it, no writing, and no markings. Jackson looked at it, from all sides. He tucked his Beretta between pants and his waist, knelt down to check for tripwires before moving it, then looked side to side. Nobody was watching him so he picked it when he was sure that it wasn't rigged to explode.

"What are you?" he said aloud, putting the package on his bed.

Jackson decided to take a shower and then head into the office. He could have his package inspected there. There were x-ray machines at the entranceways and exits. They had explosive detectors that would tell him if there were chemicals inside the package. Once he was showered, had on a fresh polo, khaki's, and his boots, Jackson grabbed his shoulder holster and a jacket. He was ready to, other than the package. Taking the package under his arm, he went down the stairs to the Market Street side of the building.

On the same block as his loft, there was a coffee shop that he stopped at every day. The coffee was average at best but the owner, Caroline, was more attractive than any woman he knew. They flirted with each other every morning, mostly over the weather or whether he would try something other than black coffee. Coffee in hand, he would head to the office with a smile on his face. Part of him was scared to ask her out for fear of rejection and part of him was fearful that she would say yes and someday have to understand his life.

Jackson arrived at the office and went through security. His normal interaction was a little friendlier than todays'. Joe, the lieutenant in the front, asked him if he was alright.

"Jetlag," he replied.

Jackson put the package on the conveyor, sending it through the machine. He watched the scanner as it slowly appeared. The x-ray didn't make it through the package. It had to have been lead-lined, or so he thought as he watched it.

"Agent Mills, what's this?" asked the lieutenant.

"I'm not sure," Jackson admitted. "Have hazmat respond to my office. Someone left this on my doorstep. Considering the places I've been lately until we see what's inside, consider it classified."

"Yes sir," Joe answered, picking up the phone.

Jackson's office was in the Defense Intelligence Services division, on the top floor. If it were an explosive device, this was probably the best place for him to take it as there were fewer people there and his office was on the southwest corner. About the same time as he was arriving there, two men from hazardous materials arrived.

"Good timing boys," Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. "Scan this and tell me what you're big brainiac readers and meters say is inside."

Jackson put the package on his desk as the director came into his office. Director Cromwell wasn't normally there this time of day, having meetings at the capital building and with other members of the clandestine services committee so it took Jackson by surprise.

"What's going on?"

"I found this at my door this morning. Considering nobody besides the Smiths and yourself knew I was even back, it warranted some attention," explained Jackson.

"It's clear," said Marcus, the head of hazard response. "No toxins, explosives, or residue. It's actually pretty clean, other than registering well below room temperature."

"What do you think it is?" asked the director.

Jackson stood at his desk, looking at the package, focusing on every angle. He took a stiletto knife from his pocket, the blade snapping open and into the locked position with the press of a button. Sliding it carefully across the taped section of the paper, he slowly opened it up, seeing the markings of an Amazon shipping box. The box inside the brown paper was taped as well. Jackson slipped the blade between the slots of the box, freeing them to open.

Putting away the knife, Jackson opened up the package. He stood there, the top of the package in his hand, his eyes glued to the contents.

"Well," asked the director, "What is it?"

Jackson was staring at the eyes of his favorite Russian informant, Yuri Vostok. He was with him at the Kremlin just three days ago. If it weren't for Yuri, he knew he wouldn't have made it out with the goods he'd been sent for. Yuri kept him from getting caught by old hardline KGB agents that would have made even the most enhanced American interrogations pale by the medieval methods they still utilized. As he stared into the box, the director stepped forward, to the edge of the desk.

"Jesus Christ...who is that?" asked Director Cromwell.

"Yuri, Yuri Vostok. My informant," answered Jackson, grabbing his jacket and heading towards the elevators.

"Jax!" yelled the director. "Where are you going?"

Jax turned and looked at his boss. He knew he owed him an explanation. Jax knew Yuri, knew him well. He'd been to his home many times and spent time with his family. Yuri had a wife and kids. If the Russian government had done this, mailing him his head, it was a message.

"Where the hell are you going, Jackson?"

"To get his family out of Russia," he replied.

The director stood there, "And that's all?"

"Not even close..."

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