End of Line

“Welcome to India, sir,” commented the airline hostess as Timothy Rasp stepped off the plane. His suit was slightly wrinkled and worn, for he had been on the plane for seventeen hours.

This was more than just a business. This time, it was personal. He had been sent to India to assist in a business transaction for his company, but that was not for another three days. Plenty of time for him to hunt down Gustav Manstislov.

Nine years ago, Manstislov, a terrorist and professional assassin, killed Jonathan Rasp. Jonathan was, at that time, giving a speech at his inaugural party. He had been elected the President of the United States of America, and never lived to enjoy it. Jonathan had been Timothy’s older brother. Since that hit, Manstislov had gone into hiding. No country would openly accept the assassin of the President. He was last seen in India, and thus remained hidden.

Hidden to all, that is, except Timothy, a man with latent telepathic abilities. And a need for revenge. He knew exactly where Manstislov was, and Manstislov knew he was coming. They were both predators, and they were both prey. Timothy had a license to kill, and Manstislov had a need.

A man walked up to Timothy. Cautiously, Timothy put his hand on his gun, turned and smiled expectantly.

“Mr. Rasp? Joruss Caboath. I was sent by United Rotaries to meet you here.” The man reached out as if to shake his hand. Timothy looked him in the eyes and smiled. What he really was doing was searching for any sign of deception in the man’s mind. The scan took milliseconds. Timothy clasped his Caboath’s and pumped it enthusiastically.

“Mr. Caboath! Of course! Dr. Threwn told me that you would meet me here.” Of course he had not, but Timothy had to act as if he did. Caboath was surprised.

“Really? Nice of him to do something on his own for once.” Caboath shook his head. “I didn’t expect you here so far ahead of the conference. Why so early?” Timothy turned his polite smile into a grin.

“Personal pleasure, I assure you.” Then, as if to clarify, “I’m here to see the sights, Mr. Caboath.” The man seemed shocked.

“Um. Not many businessmen want to see this part of India these days.”

“I can understand why.” It was true. The part of town that they were standing in was not the cleanest place Timothy had seen. “First of course, I would like to drop my bags off at my hotel, so . . .” Timothy sort of trailed off, his statement ending on a low note.

“Of course! My hospitality is somewhat lacking, Mr. Rasp. Right this way.”

“So, what took you so long, Rasp? Or should I call you Mr. Bond?” Manstislov was tied to a chair. Timothy stood before him, holding a M-16 assault rifle in his hands. Timothy tried to search Manstislov’s mind to find how he had gotten that bit of information, but his mind was tightly shut. Timothy’s job at United Rotaries was just a front. He was a secret agent, code-named Savings Bond. Timothy turned an icy glare at Manstislov.

“You will call me nothing terrorist. You will die. End of Line.” Saying that, Timothy raised the rifle and fired twice. The two bullets pierced Manstislov’s head. Perhaps it was ironic that the two bullets in the head was the same way that Manstislov had killed Jonathan Rasp. Timothy just thought of it as justice.