Winston Chase and the Alpha Machine by Bodhi St John

Author:Bodhi St John [John, Bodhi St]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

15

Grievous Engagements

Bledsoe wrinkled his nose at the stench. No sooner had he stepped out of the second-floor elevator than he wanted to get back in and delegate this to someone else. The retirement home reeked of human waste, not just excrement but also of fear, desperation, and regret. It pressed into Bledsoe’s mouth and nose, wanting to dig into his brain. No amount of disinfectant could cover it up. It was the smell of people with no more purpose, who lay in bed rotting like old fruit waiting to be thrown out. They had nothing left to add to the world. All they could do was leech away its resources.

He glanced at the signs on the wall and turned left. An orderly behind the nurse’s station desk smiled at him. He walked past her, uninterested in pleasantries.

Room 219. Donald Allen.

Despite his distaste, Bledsoe chuckled to himself and stood in the open doorway, only glancing at the paper flowers and grass taped to the side wall. Near the ceiling on the far wall, a TV showed two announcers, one male and one female. A blue banner across the top of the screen bore the words “BREAKING NEWS” while a red banner across the bottom carried the headline “FBI: Portland Teen Sought in Terrorist Connection.”

Bledsoe nodded with satisfaction and glanced at his watch. 12:02. Right on cue to catch the lunchtime buzz. Half of Portland would be primed to hunt down the Chase brat if he slipped past them. This way, everyone would be glued to the news, waiting to do Bledsoe’s work if he needed them to. Meanwhile, the president’s ever-tightening security efforts would get a public relations boost. Why, of course we need more surveillance and drones. Look at all the terrorists running around!

A photo of Winston standing in front of a bank teller appeared between the two news anchors.

“We don’t have a name yet,” said the female announcer. “However, the suspect did arrive yesterday afternoon at a Southeast Portland bank, withdrew several items from a safe deposit box, and exchanged thousands of dollars of old U.S. bills for smaller denominations. The old bills were subsequently confirmed by the FBI as counterfeit and the deposit box may have been rented by an individual with ties to the Hezbollah terrorist organization.”

“The FBI notes that the suspect may be armed and is believed to be carrying potentially radioactive explosives,” added the male announcer. He turned to his colleague and shook his head. “Our own youth. This is really serious, Mary.”

“I have a son this age, Ron,” she said. “I’ll be honest. This sort of thing is just terrifying.”

From inside the room, a man let out a strangled yell. A remote control flew through the air and crashed against the wall a good two or three feet below the television, sending bits of plastic, buttons, and batteries flying in every direction.

“I know,” said Bledsoe as he walked into the room. “A terrifying terrorist. Who writes this stuff?”

Bledsoe passed the bathroom corner and sat down on the bed right next to his target’s left arm.

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