Someone Of Little Consequence... (standard:mystery, 4197 words)
Author: Anonymous	Added: Feb 21 2012	Views/Reads: 3239/1926	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Linton Bonney flies himself to Phoenix ans assasintes a strnger..

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The precocious weather matured on the Diablos' western slopes - surging
upwards, invisible fingers bending the young sequoia trees - swallowing 
thermals fed by the summer sun. 

Bonney scanned his instruments - coaxing the pitching aircraft back to
level flight. Oil and fuel gauges - temperatures and pressures 
indicating the health of the machine... 

Everything was right... 

The adolescent storm, annoyed that its tears brought relief to
drought-hit farmers below, displayed growing petulance by spitting 
enormous hailstorms. 

Its saliva of contempt... 

Steadying the control wheel, Bonney pushed first the left, then
right-hand levers, channelling hot air into the carburettors, melting 
choking ice condensing from the moist air. 

With a sickening wrench the plane fell from under him, shoulder straps
biting painfully, dragging him with the plummeting machine. Cursing, he 
tightened them vice-like around chest and waist. 

It was beginning... 

* * * 

Nudging the storm Bonney's feelings were mixed. Subconsciously, was he
trying to make things even more difficult - a price of growing old 
maybe? 

His failure to change the world? 

Just one more chance - another big one? Maybe this journey would provide
it - flying to Phoenix to kill someone he'd never met and who'd done 
him - perhaps no one - any harm? 

Hired by two crazy Englishmen for money and excitement... 

Perhaps he'd finally succumbed to madness or some perverted sickness?
Lusting for increasingly bizarre thrills, going further and further, 
gaining some twisted satisfaction. 

He understood himself well, long prison camp years encouraging
self-analysis - self-recognition, an atavistic throwback needing to 
hunt, stalk and kill... 

In Vietnam he'd killed for money called 'being patriotic'. Initially he
thought it protected the great Western democracies. The politician's 
the comedians, the poor bloody soldiers mere stooges in that 
tragi-comedy. 

Disillusioned, he'd reconciled himself to being a ‘hired gun' - ideals
were for little people or the very young - grown-ups the real cynics, 
grabbing the goodies. Self first - concern for others just a token. 

Lubrication to enlightened self-interest... 

Often, he hated these beliefs, accepting his own psychopathic
personality. Vietnam killed off any youthful naivety, as his kind 
realised they'd become mere cannon fodder to political ambition. The 
rancour never decayed and bitterness poisoned his mind. Would this 
contract to kill, satisfy him, or was it another fix down a slippery 
slope towards total degradation? 

Autopilot off, he hand-flew the Duchess into the boiling turbulence.
Fighting two storms that day - the easy, physical one he understood, 
but the other inner storm, an attempt to purge his bitterness and anger 
- one that might bring him peace? 

Turbulence again, he eased back the throttles - less speed - less
airframe stress. The ‘plane shuddered, aluminium wing skins shimmying, 
groaning with strain. One moment soaring upwards two thousand feet per 
minute and then plunging downwards again, rolling alarmingly side to 
side  - an insignificant leaf in an autumn gale. 

Let it ride. Keep on an even keel. Wings level. Don't get low or slow...


As long as he didn't descend too far he'd be OK. Despite its protesting
tortured metal the Duchess was very strong. Concentrating, struggling 
to stay level, he fought the storm. Ice was now worrying him - a film 
of rime on the wings' leading edge and an opaque layer coating the 
windscreen. He knew he could handle the turbulence - rattling his bones 
a little before hyping him into giddy adrenalin high, but it wouldn't 
kill him... 

A terrifying crescendo of hailstones drowned the roar of the engines.
Hail wouldn't kill him either. It might ruin the paintwork, dent the 
wings and tail, but that was the extent of it. 

As for the lightning? 

There, the storm gods might achieve more. Already it had struck several
times, only pinpricks in the aluminium skin. Lightning is normally 
harmless - unless it finds some flaw in the plane - like a missing 
strip of bonding wire where explosive heat builds up? 

It was ice he feared most - rapidly becoming a problem at the current
rate, forcing him to descend as extra weight and more urgently the 
crystalline build-up on the wings, destroyed their efficiency. 

Warmer air was the answer, three thousand feet below - air unfortunately
stuffed with the rocky peaks of mountains. He would have to remain 
where he was, as long as he could maintain level flight. 

His throat tightened from excitement and fear - not anticipating so much
ice. Now another sound joined the symphony of strained aluminium, 
drumming hailstones and throbbing engines.  Chunks of ice spinning off 
propeller blades and ricocheting against the fuselage. 

Each impact speeding his heartbeat into a drum roll heralding
eternity... 

Welcoming bright, warm sunshine saluted him outrunning the storm to the
east - one hundred and sixty five miles to Skyharbour, Phoenix. 

An hour's flying - a hotel room, a shower, drink and a large meal. 

Life suddenly was very good... 

* * * 

Bonney wasn't sure what bit him, drinking his blood, irritating and
discomfort, but he called them sand fleas - a label he'd invented 
during long hours of boredom. Five days, the sand fleas had given him 
hell - itching like crazy, almost eaten alive. They alone were 
incentive enough to finish the job quickly. 

He'd had time for reflection, tedious hours prone under the scorching
desert sun. Hiding amongst the rocks, acacia scrub and thorn bushes 
with light red-brown earth infiltrating his clothing, a merciless sun 
frying him. Suffering from insect stings and risking a bite from 
rattlesnake or sidewinder, whatever else that infernal desert might 
reveal. Time to review his elaborate precautions, the details ensuring 
he would not end up on Death Row awaiting the electric chair. 

His aircraft, sadly displayed visible signs of its beating from the
hailstorm, needed a re-spray where the ice bullets had sanded the 
leading edges to bare metal. He had left it parked on Skyharbour's 
north side in the care of the handling agent, chained to the tarmac in 
case one of the miniature whirlwinds - locally called dust devils - 
came by. 

Dealing with the agent he'd used the first of the four aliases Smith and
Jones had provided. The mysterious duo had been thorough, providing 
credit cards, false pilot and driver's licences and a handful of 
creased letters supporting each alias. They'd shown considerable 
resources - he wouldn't have agreed to the contract if they hadn't been 
so totally professional. 

He'd hired a yellow cab to the southern terminal. There he'd mingled
with arriving passengers and enjoyed two drinks before using another 
alias to rent a car. 

Now, itching and sweating, the fine dirt abraded his skin. As fleas
continued their banquet - cursing frequently but silently, he resolved 
to conclude this business. If the pattern of the five previous days 
were replayed it wouldn't be long now... 

Searching for comfort, he shifted in the grit that passed for soil - so
many stones, hundreds of small sharp ones beneath him. Five days prone, 
allowed their razor edges to press deeper into his increasingly 
sensitive skin, bruising, rubbing it red raw. Now he desperately wanted 
to end it and leave this scorching hostile place. 

Five days was long enough... 

He recalled the first morning - after making the twelve-mile journey
from Phoenix to Scottsdale, leaving the Ford in an all-day parking lot, 
anonymous amongst hundreds of others. 

The cab driver didn't know Desert Wheels, a business hiring buggies and
bikes to those intending to explore the trackless wilderness. Bonney 
had chosen two wheels - a bike was faster, more manoeuvrable and able 
to cross terrain too rough for a four-wheeler. The Suzuki SP400 trail 
bike - was an old model, but its single cylinder 397cc engine was more 
reliable than a multi. He couldn't risk breaking down in the desert. 

Hiring the bike burned his third alias - the fourth would be purely for
emergencies. 

Bonney glanced at his wristwatch - not long now... 

His discomfort was having a cumulative, very negative influence on his
temper. He desperately wanted an end before his resolve evaporated. 

Twenty to six - already he observed the dust tracing the Lincoln's
progress along the valley road. As usual, it followed the dried up 
river from the house to the hamlet, onwards to the cleared strip 
serving as a rough airfield. 

Five days he'd studied the sprawling building - white walled, single
storied, like others in this area, in the style of a Mexican hacienda. 
Remote, high above the cacti-riddled scrubland, the rambling complex 
dominated the hillock on which it was built - more mesa than a hill - 
three sides were too steep for a road vehicle, the fourth had a winding 
track from the valley floor. 

A security fence surrounded the 150-acres. Around he house were smaller
buildings, stables and garages. He couldn't understand why the owner 
hadn't built an airstrip on his property but Bonney's task would then 
have been far more difficult... 

The target, large with rust coloured hair, in many ways resembling an
ox, obviously preferred the hilltop site, the hacienda, dominating its 
surroundings like a medieval castle. 

Near the large house lay the tiny hamlet of Arrow Valley Springs,
seventy miles north east of Phoenix, its meagre collection of shacks 
littering the valley floor - like a film set for a western in Apache 
country. He half expected to see John Wayne ride in on a tall horse. 

Cruel country, five thousand feet above sea level, typical Arizona high
desert - harsh and lonely. 

Five days watching, noting and planning - Phoenix to Scottsdale then the
long journey north east - twenty miles off-road, bumping skidding, 
leaping even, over ridges, gullies and small dunes. 

Never more than a few yards in a straight line... 

Nobody watching would suspect - leggings, gloves, heavy leather boots
and shoulder pack - all standard apparel riding trail bikes in that 
wilderness. Even the rifle case across his back, wouldn't arouse 
comment. Guns are common in Arizona. Numerous species are shot - 
antelopes, the pig-like javelina, coyotes and big horn sheep. Where 
most pick-up trucks carry gun racks and signs ordering No Shooting From 
The Highway, stand riddled with bullet holes. 

His rifle wouldn't be out of place... 

Worst, was leaving the Suzuki a mile from his surveillance point.
Walking wasn't the problem - he was fit and even in this scorching 
desert it wasn't too far - it was the rucksack he carried, containing a 
hundred pounds of rocks guaranteeing, large deep footprints. 

His boots, three sizes too big - were padded with tissues. Without
having time to sweep the dirt behind him - the redskin way of hiding 
tracks - he preferred a false trail, that of a bigger man a hundred 
pounds heavier. 

Long hours, observing the house and airstrip, gave him time for thought.
Why did Smith and Jones want Ox, dead? Why pay so well? Who employed 
them? There had to be another masterminding the affair? What had Ox, 
living in this remote place, done? Who had he offended? Did he owe 
money? Has he screwed some powerful man's wife? Was he just politically 
inconvenient? 

Bonney was disturbed by the apparent lack of motive. 

It worried him more than killing... 

Obviously Ox was very security minded. Bonney was pleased not to have to
penetrate the complex. It would deter any casual intruder. Additionally 
the guards - driver-minders and highly trained, body language 
indicating professional alertness and certainly armed. Searching eyes 
forever scanning, wary - he could tell even at a distance, the 
concentration on their faces, the earnest set of their jaw lines. He 
was glad the hit would be long range, using the telescopic sight of his 
hunting rifle. 

Killing close is traumatic - at distance no more alarming than shooting
a target or rabbit - at least that was his experience in Nam, when he 
had eliminated a Mig 21. 

He hadn't visited Valley Springs - no need to, only attracting attention
- perhaps Ox would be notified of a stranger in the vicinity. 

Why was the hamlet there at all? 

Probably once the site of an old mine? Silver, being why people settled
on this high plateau. Most mines had now gone - decades before, 
becoming ghost towns. Some still remained, miners scratching 
subsistence from the desert unlike this place's rich resident who 
commuted to Phoenix by private aircraft. 

Bonney had only one chance of success. Ox never ventured out other than
to commute to the airstrip. Pool, patio and barbecue, must all be there 
somewhere but he couldn't see them. Probably they existed amongst the 
complex of buildings, but even the parking area was concealed. It did 
not matter too much - the range, from the security fence - would be too 
great to be sure of a fatal hit. 

One fluky shot might kill from the boundary, but he couldn't rely on
luck... 

It had to be the airstrip, the flat dirt track east to west between
thorn bushes and cacti - eleven hundred yards long, twenty wide. A 
small lock-up hanger was beside the strip, just big enough for Ox's 
twin engined Piper Aztec. One other aircraft lived there, an old 
Taylorcraft F21 with tattered canvas-covered wings, faded blue and 
white paint showing existence outside in the hot sun. 

It hadn't flown all week... 

The dust plume heralding the limousine approached slowly along the dirt
track. Bonney expected the 'plane overhead to circle, then land. Ox 
must have radio contact with the ground; so precise had been their 
arrival every day. 

The minders left the big Lincoln, fanned out, scanning all four
horizons. Bonney felt secure, in his hideaway amongst some grey 
boulders. His shot, his only chance, would be when Ox transferred from 
aircraft to car, leaving a minder to taxi the plane into the hanger. It 
took three seconds for Ox to make the short journey, partly shielded by 
one of the guards. 

Bonney had considered the morning, but all four were then too alert for
his liking - so he preferred the afternoon, after hours of hot sun had 
relaxed them, blunted their reflexes. He'd decided against shooting 
through the aircraft windscreen - the clear Perspex might deflect his 
bullet. 

The twin-engined machine droned into sight, descending towards the
strip. Bonney cowered deeper into his cubbyhole amongst the rocks. He 
needn't have bothered. There was no way anyone six hundred feet above - 
would spot Bonney, whose camouflage outfit closely matched the pastel 
desert. The plane touched at the far end of the strip making dust. Ox 
acknowledged the reassuring wave from his guards, as Bonney's grip 
tightened on his rifle. He fingered its walnut stock - satin smooth 
wood smelling faintly of linseed oil he'd lovingly rubbed into it. 

He fondled it the way a lover caresses a woman's breast... 

As the engines died - Bonney cycled the action of the Rigby. The bolt
slid easily, silky smooth, as only a best London gun does. Sound 
carries a long way in the still desert air so he could not risk the 
slightest click from the mechanism traversing the two hundred yards 
between him and the minders. 

Rifle ready - safety off, fore-end resting on a large boulder - its lush
wood protected from the rock by a folded bandanna. The gleaming black 
barrel felt heavy but the sight-picture remained unsteady from the 
tension within Bonney. 

He blinked a few times to calm his eyes, to stop their nervous
twitching... 

For a week, he'd taken Proprandol, the beta-blocker drug for high blood
pressure and a muscle relaxant. A trick, used by competition marksmen 
before drug testing was introduced - it prevents trembling, slight 
shaking holding a heavy gun on target. Hands now steadier, his target 
loomed large and clear, magnified by the Zeiss telescopic sight. 

For the tenth time he reminded himself to stop breathing, pause as he
squeezed the trigger... 

He could hear his heart pounding against his rib cage, impossible to
relax when about to kill another man in cold blood. Forget what you've 
heard - bar room talk, fiction writer's descriptions; Only those who 
have done it - those who've killed a man, know how it's really like, 
dry mouth and racing pulse - above all the uncontrollable adrenalin 
surge - the crazy unreal high - simultaneous elation and violent 
sickness. 

Bonney struggled to control emotions, breathing, slow down and regain
his disintegrating composure. All that effort - everything so far a 
preparation for the next few seconds. 

Stay cool, he thought - he was already too high for that... 

He struggled to maintain even a fragile composure. 

Seconds before both engines shuddered to their stuttering stop, Ox
jumped from the aircraft, running the three short yards to his car. 
Like an alerted, startled rabbit, thought Bonney - expecting something 
to happen - possessing the well-honed survival instincts and lightening 
reactions of the pursued. 

Having only microseconds, Bonney's senses and reflexes assumed the razor
sharpness of the hunter, a leopard about to spring. But, he almost blew 
it - just one of those moments - improbable, unplanned, unanticipated. 
As the smallest, the shortest of the minders opened the car for his 
boss; its window reflected the bright sunshine. 

Bonney might have had a mirror flashed at him - blinding sun into his
eyes. Although the glare was momentary, he was temporarily blinded, 
desperately struggling to recover. 

Enough to ruin his shot - his one chance... 

As Bonnie squinted, blinking to clear his vision - Ox stooped into the
Lincoln. Bonney panicked, just microseconds to act, abandoned his 
careful aim, forgetting breath control and squeezed off the one 
desperate shot he had time for... 

Beating three thousand feet per second, the hollow point, three seven
five magnum needed a quarter second to travel two hundred yards. At 
that distance its trajectory was almost flat. Bonney had aimed a notch 
high, compensation for the slight drop. The big man never heard it, no 
victim of a supersonic round hears the shot - least not until it has 
hit. 

The bullet missed Ox's heart by half an inch. It didn't matter much - an
expanding-nose slug - muzzle power over one 1300 foot-pounds doesn't 
need to hit a vital organ. The soft lead bullet spreads - mushrooming 
and dissipating its energy in a tissue-destroying orgy. A tiny entry, 
one third of an inch diameter, but where it exited it leaves a 
fist-sized cavity... 

Not just bone and tissue are destroyed but the nervous system itself -
the shock to the neuron network too great. Shock kills. Ox died as 
quickly and cleanly as anyone can decently expect from a high velocity 
bullet. Bonney racked the Rigby's bolt, chambering another round. As Ox 
died before his body even hit the ground - Bonney's concern was now 
with the minders. 

Would they earn their pay having failed to protect their boss? 

Bonney couldn't take chances - shifting his aim - targeting one
mid-thigh, now with fractionally more time. One of their companions 
screaming in agony might deter the others... 

* * * 

Four days after killing Ox, Bonney again met Smith and Jones in San
Francisco. He was punctual when entering the Plaza hotel on Union 
Square. He'd felt no remorse or pangs of conscience after escaping 
Arrow Valley Springs. The two unharmed guards; mindful of their 
wretched, wounded colleague screaming beside their dead boss showed no 
stomach for pursuit. 

Bonney returned the Suzuki to Scottsdale and the car to the rental unit
at Skyharbour airport. He had then flown himself back to California to 
confront his paymasters. 

'Well done.' Jones spoke first, after Bonney had presented his report. 
'How do you feel now?' 

'OK, I guess,' replied Bonney... 

'Adverse reactions?' asked the man calling himself Smith. 'Any regrets?'


'Negative - none so far. It's not the first time I've killed. We weren't
in Nam to socialise...' 

'Good,' both men spoke in unison - like some bizarre comic act. 

'Tell me,' asked Bonney, 'who was he - the red haired man?' 

'He was...' answered Smith slowly, deliberately choosing his words,
'someone of little consequence.... no importance to us at least. In his 
own field he undoubtedly had many enemies as you could judge from his 
security arrangements...' 

'Why then,' asked Bonney, voice hoarse with suspicion,   'why have me
kill him? The high pay?  The elaborate planning - so much trouble?' 

'My dear Bonney.' Jones's seemed slightly patronising - irritating the
veteran pilot. 

'My dear fellow... you killed someone of little consequence to us -
heavily guarded, obviously of importance to others - but not to us.' 

'You're the one who's important, Bonney...' 

‘ Welcome aboard...  it was only a test... just an examination - to
measure your skill, check your resolve. See if you'd go through with it 
- a sort of extended interview...' 

To see if you'd go through with it... To see if you'd go through... To
see if... Words that echoed through Bonney's head like a haunting tune 
- sneering, facetious... 

'You got the job friend Bonney - congratulations. Welcome aboard.' Smith
joining in continuing a macabre double act. They were too jovial, too 
light-hearted for men who'd commissioned the murder of a stranger - 
albeit someone of little consequence. 

'What job?' Bonney gasped - more troubled... 

'You don't think,' continued Smith, eyes narrowing - frivolity gone,
‘your qualifications - that combat pilot stuff in Vietnam? You don't 
think all that was needed to kill a man in some remote backwater...' 

'Would've been a waste. Overkill - forgive the pun. We've plans for your
talents. Bigger plans than you could ever imagine...' 

The gimlet eyes bore deep - Bonney stared back with a gambler's
inscrutability. This business was becoming more interesting. 

Again he felt the chill, gripping hand of fear - worse than flying the
storm en route to Phoenix - more than amongst boulders; gun in hand, 
overlooking Arrow Valley Springs. 

He'd never been so frightened in all his life... 

End © Peter Hunter 

This short story is extracted from peter Hunter's thriller Time Of The
Eagle on Kindle 


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