I, Target (Part 3): I, Target, #3

I,

TARGET

(Part 3)

By

Bruce Rousseau

Copyright © 2014 Bruce Rousseau

All rights reserved.

Dark Teal Press

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, products, brands, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, persons living or dead, businesses, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

BruceRousseau.com

Series Description

My name is Marko Santana and I have been killed many times.

You see, each time I am killed, my mind jumps into the killer’s body and I take over. It’s weird but simple: if someone kills me, I get their body.

So does that make me the ultimate crime-fighter? Maybe a cool body-snatcher kind of guy? Or nothing but a freakin’ brain parasite? Personally, I prefer to think of myself as the ultimate survivor—with a serious personality disorder.

I am not your father’s punch and run superhero. I am a problem in motion—and for better or worse, I am on the road to being seriously mental.

Join me on my quest for purpose and sanity as I journey through life in other people’s bodies. For these are the chronicles of one who feeds on killers—my killers. These are the chronicles of Marko Santana.

Born in Texas. Died all over.

To Carol

who transforms me

3.1 Assignment

Big day. This was the day of my first assignment for the North American Brain-Walking Syndicate. Or whatever it was called. All I knew was that it was maybe a three day trip, I’d be picked up in a new white limo around three p.m. and taken to the airport, and a woman named Clark was in charge.

Cool.

First time in a limo. This would be my third time to fly.

Hopefully I’d have an aisle seat. And since this was Wolf I was in, I thought an unlimited credit card would be in order. Free in-flight movies. Unlimited pizza at the airport. Free drinks everywhere. Maybe I’d pick up a squishy stuffed animal for Marie.

And Jack was all into Wolf, so there was a good chance I wouldn’t have to die on this mission. Hey, I was into Wolf too, but in a normal jumper kind of way.

So let’s see. I’d need swimming trunks, sun screen, sunglasses—stuff like that in case I was heading south. But something with long sleeves for the plane in case people all around my seat had their cold air nozzles on full blast. Condoms? Yeah, in case this Clark person was a hottie. I looked all over for rubbers. Damn. Wolf didn’t seem to have any. Oh well, Ms. Clark would be on the pill. All the hotties were on the pill. Right?

Note to self: The Multi-Mind is a terrible place to conduct rational thought.

Vasectomy. What’s that, Wolf? Now you tell me? Okay. Wolf was shooting blanks.

What about bringing weapons? I thought TSA wouldn’t allow guns and commando knives, so no need to worry about any of Wolf’s lethal stuff. Jack didn’t say this was a hit job. Actually, he didn’t say what the hell I’d be doing. I looked for some non-metallic garroting gear because it would be TSA friendly, but Wolf said he could strangle with just about anything handy.

Okay, so maybe poison? Poison was for sissies. Right, Wolf. What about night-vision goggles? Nah. TSA would probably have questions about those. Besides, I suspected Wolf could naturally see in the dark.

Eventually, I had it all laid out on the bed.

Beach gear. Check.

Quart size plastic bag. Check.

Little bottles of stuff to go in the bag. Mostly check.

Long sleeve shirt for the possibly too-cold plane ride. Check.

Assorted clothes. Check.

Fancy suit, just in case we hit the casinos in Monte Carlo. Check.

Wolf’s passport. Check.

All I needed now was some luggage. Unchecked.

After a long search, I finally found some luggage in the garage. Who keeps it there? Big check-in bag, or little carry-on bag? Jack was a dick for not telling me where I was going.

Oh well. Little carry-on bag. Unfortunately, the folded up suit and dress shoes took up half the damn bag.

This was exciting. Unfortunately, I had a ton of time before my 3 p.m. limo ride to the airport. So Wolf swam in the pool. Wolf worked out. We scrounged around for lunch. We tried to take a nap. We sat in the hot tub for a while. We cooled off in the shower. I was in the mood to do naked cartwheels around the house, but I didn’t know how to do those. None of us did.

Finally the doorbell rang. Right on time. I grabbed my stuff and headed to the front door.

A sexy limo driver? I opened the door.

No. Just some guy in a cap.

He took our small carry-on bag and we hopped into the back of the limo. The guys in my head were totally pumped. Was it primo? Hell, yeah. But looking closer, I saw lots of boring high-end booze and precious little beer that I liked. What? I had to make my own rum and cokes? What the hell was primo about that?

But it was a new limo, and it was freshly waxed and pearl white. Just like Jack said it would be.

Drive on, my good man.

Okay, so I was high as a kite without the aid of any booster booze.

We were off to the airport. My secret assignment was starting, even if I didn’t know what it was.

West on 71. I knew the route by heart. Hell, I’d made this trip a thousand times in my taxi. Which airline? I hoped the driver knew, because I didn’t have a clue. Wasn’t I supposed to have tickets?

When we got to the airport grounds, we made a very wrong turn. Jeeves, the terminals are that way. But I held my tongue because he seemed to know exactly what he was doing.

A minute later we were at some sort of private business jet area. Sweet! Of course the Jumper Syndicate would use private jets. The finest of everything.

But the driver pulled over out in the middle of nowhere. Lots of deluxe little jets all around and we stopped way out here? I got a bad premonition about a shakedown. Taxi drivers know a bad move when they see one. I tried to relax.

He opened the tinted glass partition and offered me a paper bag. Empty your pockets. Put all of your things in this. Everything.

Huh? My first assignment couldn’t start with a robbery. Could it? Do what with my things?

He waved the bag. I took it and started emptying my pockets.

So everything I had on me went into the bag. Okay, I got it. This was just TSA, limo style. You need my belt?

No.

Shoes?

No. Just everything in your pockets. Wallet. Passport. Keys. Cell phone. Whatever you’ve got. Your watch, too.

My watch? It’s a Rolex.

The driver’s eyes widened. Really? He seemed to think about it for a few seconds. In the bag.

Shit.

He continued his demands. Computer, iPod, anything electronic.

I don’t have anything like that. I felt like I was being robbed blind.

When it was all in the bag, he took it and held out a large sealed envelope. Take it.

I took it.

He looked annoyed. Open it.

Okay, okay, I opened it. Inside was someone guy’s used wallet and a red passport. Really? That’s all? No, in the bottom was a crappy watch with a black leather strap and a plain wedding ring. No way I was going to wear a wedding ring.

No cell phone?

The passport was Canadian and said Diplomatic Passport Passeport Diplomatique on the cover. Wow. Inside there was Wolf’s picture but it said I was Waldo Jackson. Really? Does my secret undercover name have to be Waldo?

Then it dawned on me I was Waldo, Jack’s son. Ha ha. Not funny. Jack was such a little bastard.

At least I could remember my cover name.

I opened the wallet. Good, the credit cards I was hoping for. A few family photos of people I’d never seen. Plus a bunch of U. S. and Canadian dollars. And some euros.

Cool. A Canadian mission. Or a European mission. Either way, I was an untouchable diplomat. Canadian, eh? I’d have to remember to put eh at the end of every sentence.

What else do Canadians do? Smoke pot? Chop down trees? Drink beer? Be politically confused? Hey, I could be Canadian.

Eh?

Unfortunately it looked like I didn’t need the swimsuit. But I could wind up in Europe, so the James Bond suit for Monte Carlo was a good call on my part.

As the driver was fondling the Rolex from my bag of personal stuff, he turned to me. Any other identification? In your carry-on? Suit labels? Tattoos? Anything else that could identify you?

Like he was going to rip off my I heart Wolfie tats? Not that Wolf had any. Uh, there are tags on my carry-on bag. I thought they said Wolf Payne.

I already switched the luggage tags. Anything else?

Nope.

Then memorize your new identity. You’ll need it to survive.

Cool. I opened the passport again and tried to memorize what little it had printed in it. A stamp from Tanzania. Okay, I was a safari guy. A stamp from Rome. Tourist guy. No more stamps.

My driver’s license said I was from Ontario. I wasn’t exactly sure where that was. Ottawa was in fine print. Ottawa? Some of it was in French. Great. None of us spoke French.

The driver moved the limo close to one of the hangars. He got out and opened my door.

Damn. I’d only had one crummy beer and a bag of chips. So much for the cool limo ride.

The driver pulled my little suitcase out of the trunk and rolled it over to some people standing by what looked like a flight office. I started to walk over to them but they waved me to proceed to a small business jet waiting nearby.

Good. There was a sexy flight attendant waiting for me by the jet’s little boarding stairs. She smiled as I walked up to her. Good morning, Mr. Jackson.

I grinned. It was going to be a good flight. To wherever.

I got on the plane. My bag disappeared with the limo driver.

Hey. No TSA. No ticket. No nothing. Awesome.

Not many seats but they were all empty. They all looked VIP deluxe. Seating was whatever plush leather seat I cared to park my butt in.

I picked one. I parked it. Sweet!

No crap about upright seats, tray tables, oxygen masks, or fighting for the exits in case of emergency. No crap about turning off anything electronic.

Of course, Wolf’s cell phone was now in the hot little hands of the limo driver. Not to mention the Rolex. But I still felt like a king.

Two pilots boarded. One gave me a nod.

That seemed to be the extent of the security check. Sadly, no one asked to see my super cool diplomatic passport. Maybe later.

What about all those poor schmucks flying first class in big ugly commercial jets? It dawned on me, those were the corporate wannabes, the corporate losers. The real top dogs on planet Earth flew in private jets. Yes, they did.

That was me.

Top dog.

Jack’s bitch.

Who the hell just called me Jack’s bitch? Martoni? Nameless? Come on, who was it?

Never mind. There were two flight attendants. Both babes.

I checked them out.

Okay, they were just fashion models or something because they were way too skinny for my taste.

Beautiful, yes. Sexy, no.

Note to self: Tell Jack real men preferred real curves on our women. Greyhounds were sleek and classy, but most guys craved a curvy ass they could hold onto. Jack was so clueless, even if he’d been several hundred men already.

They closed the hatch. I looked around. Just me.

Sweet!

I put my seat belt on, but it seemed like no one was going to ask me to do it. Hell, there weren’t any tray tables anywhere. No cold air nozzles. No fat guys hogging my space or farty old geezers or babies bawling their eyes out. This was so alien. This was how God had meant man to fly.

Epic!

We started to taxi. The ladies gave me hot wipie towels. Cool.

They gave me pre-takeoff drinks. They offered champagne, but I asked for rum and coke. Extra rum. They had it. Very cool. Much better than the limo. Limos should all have sexy back seat attendants. Seemed obvious.

Then they gave me weird but yummy appetizers. Cool.

More hot wipies. Cool.

They finally sat down for takeoff.

Actually, I was hoping the model babes would take something off for takeoff. Seemed appropriate for Jumper class. But no clothes were being taken off.

Nope. I was too optimistic. Okay, it was an absolutely lame thought. The rum was potent. I made it a point to keep my clothes on so