Текст книги "Driver Chronicles: Book 1 - The Passenger"

Автор книги: Niall Roche

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Chapter 11

A waitress skittered over with a notepad. She looked about 50, but Jason guessed she was closer to 40; the extra miles on her clock were probably a combination of bad living, and a crappy job. Years of running around late at night on minimum wage will puts years on anyone, and Darlene here, or at least that's what her Chucky's Diner name tag said, was after doing her fair share of late nights and Jason thought she looked like she needed a complete overhaul.

Actually, he guessed she was more like 42, and he was pretty sure if he asked her, he'd be right. Jason had always been able to pull numbers out of the air, but then again, other days, he'd forget where he parked his cab. Go figure. He'd always put the number guessing down to pure luck, the only luck he'd ever really had.  It still freaked people out from time to time though.

"What can I get you guys?" she asked.

Jason waited for Heller to order, but he got the courtesy nod from the old man that he should order first. This was the easy bit, Jason thought.

"Steak, eggs, white toast, and coffee please."

Just repeating to Darlene what he intended to eat had increased the rumble coming from his stomach to a dull roar now instead.

Heller didn't wait for an invitation. "I see you have apple pie and pecan pie. Bring me a big slice of each, four scoops of vanilla ice cream, and a pot of strong coffee please, young lady.”

A few unintelligible scribbles on her pad later and Darlene was gone on her way. Jason realized that he was still holding the menu in front of himself, reading it. He also realized that Heller was looking straight at him, smiling. He could feel his stare burning through the worn menu and straight into his mind.

"My doctors would kill me for eating this, but then, it won't kill me any more quickly than anything else at this stage. There’s nothing unhealthier than cancer, and I intend on having one last meal of my own choosing. You still have questions about what I've told you, don't you? I can see it in your eyes," Heller said with a grin that was part fox and part Cheshire cat.

Jason found himself nodding without thinking. He realized he did have more questions, even though he was pretty sure he wasn't going to like the answers he got. "You said earlier about 'designated targets' with Kennedy, right? What exactly does that mean?" The rabbit hole was about to get a whole lot deeper.

"None of us knew the other gunmen, Jason, but we all had our own specific targets to aim for. Each of these targets delivering an almost-definite kill shot. From the top down, we were aiming for the head, throat, heart, lungs, and spine. We were trying to put rounds where they were going to do massive direct and collateral damage. Even if our bullets passed clean through him, the damage they did would be beyond medical science both then and now. Like I said, the ZR Rifle guys made sure that it was game over for Kennedy. The only way he was going to leave Dealey Plaza was dead.”

The "Magic Bullet" theory had stuck out like a sore thumb during any investigation into the Kennedy assassination. Apparently, bullets that could defy the laws of physics were all over Dallas, Texas that November day. Or there had been other shooters trying to kill Kennedy. Jason had always suspected that what happened in that day was nothing less than a military-style ambush, something that his own training backed up, but he'd never had any real proof of that until now. The only thing "magic" about those bullets is how many of them were fired.

Something else was bothering Jason. "But what about Kennedy's protection from the Secret Service guys and even the local police? How did you know they wouldn't interfere?"

"If you carefully examine the events leading up to the assassination, there were all the signs that the shit was going to hit the fan. Kennedy's Secret Service escort went AWOL just before the execution. Why? They were removed because they’d wind up getting in the way of most of the bullets being aimed at Kennedy. There was too much risk of them helping him escape "The Main Event" and then for Kennedy to start asking some very awkward questions. Even if he just told Bobby Kennedy what had happened, we were looking at martial law and every one of the conspirators eating a bullet, including me.”

“Getting the Secret Service guys out of the picture was easy – they were simply told to hang back, and that's what they did. Those guys are trained to obey orders, so we used that against them," Heller explained intently.

"Other hints were things like the bulletproof canopy his Cadillac used all the time being removed that morning. The spin we put on that afterward was that Kennedy wanted people to see him up close and personal. Well, I can call bullshit on that one, Jason – we just made sure he didn't have an inch of bulletproof glass protecting his damned fool hide. Heck, we even managed to get his route changed to bring Kennedy into a triangulated ambush. The Secret Service was the very least of our problems; we knew we had the most important of them in our pocket, and the ones who weren't were kept well away from the action.”

"Don't you care there are other people in here who could overhear you? Report you to the police?" Jason asked.

Heller started his belly laugh again. "No, I don't care, and why would I? There are so many conspiracy nuts these days that it's hard to find a truly sane person to have a conversation with. The lunatic asylums are full of perfectly sane men mixed in with all the lunatics. For all we know, Jesus Christ did return to the Earth, but is currently medicated in some local nuthouse. Claims of insider knowledge, or being able to perform miracles, won't get you very far these days. The flip side of this is that the government is full of lunatics. I should know because I was one of them. Maybe I still am."

“Let them listen to me all they want," Heller said. "The reality is, most people are too busy just trying to get by to care much about anything else. Starving, worried, financially destroyed people are easy to control. That's all part of it, Jason. That’s all part of the bigger game plan.”

"Part of what? You keep hinting at knowing more than you're saying, so maybe spit it out, Heller, instead of playing games with me.”

Jason had never enjoyed people playing mind games, and this old man was obviously a master of the art. That didn't make him any less infuriating though, and that anger had finally bubbled to the surface. He could feel it throbbing in his veins, and felt his fists clench involuntarily.

For a split second, the grandfatherly smile on Heller's face vanished and was replaced by a look filled with the kind of cold-blooded anger that instantly convinced Jason he was having coffee with a killer. The mask had dropped just long enough for him to see exactly what was hiding underneath the disguise the old man was wearing.

A split second later, the cold stare was gone, and Heller went back to looking like just another old man sitting in a diner, chatting with a friend of his. Shit, as far as most people were concerned, they probably thought Jason was so kind, bringing his grandfather out for some pie á la mode.

Staring directly into his eyes, Heller asked, "Have you ever heard about the Illuminati, Jason? Do you know anything about them?"

Chapter 12

He'd walked North away from Dealey as quickly as he could manage, doing his best to make it look like a casual walk despite the fact his mind wanted him to sprint away from what he’d just done. The president was dead. Shot in the head. Bingo. Game over. The sweat dripping from his face was going to give him away if he wasn't real careful, so he consciously forced himself to walk a little bit more slowly. He wanted to give his body a chance to cool down and his mind a chance to catch up.

Revchon Park wasn't a million miles away now, so neither was Routh Street. The big deal was done, but there was still other business to take care of. He patted his jacket pocket to make sure everything was where he left it. It was, and that was enough to reassure him. Enough to keep him focused. He was still on the clock here, and every minute mattered more than his own life right now. Sixty stupid seconds could mean the difference between walking away from this clean, or going straight to hell before the day was out.

Bill Heller didn't plan on going to hell today. Not today, no, sir. He was pretty sure someone else was going to have to though.

Carlo Fiorello sat in the small apartment, feeling quite pleased with himself. No one would've thought that they could pull this off. Those government dipshits he'd been dealing with did everything except pull the trigger for him. Hell, he didn't even have to pull the trigger, he had that half-Italian mutt, Moser, to take care of that for him. Still, you had to hand it to the guy, he could shoot a fly off your nose at 100-yards, but he was definitely borderline retarded.

"Hey, Frank, c'mere a minute – you gotta get paid."

Frank Moser ambled slowly over to where Morello was sitting. At 6' 3", Moser was an impressively big man, but nothing more than a hired thug. The only reason he got hired for the Kennedy hit was because he was the best shot the Rivello family had on their books. Plus, he was too dumb to ask questions or cause them any headaches. They got themselves the equivalent of an idiot savant with a rifle, and it had paid off handsomely, and the some!

Moser sat down at the table across from Morello, smiling. He'd done his job and he'd done it well. This money was enough to pay off his book, too, before they took it out of his legs, or worse. Then again, it usually took a few guys to take him down, but no one was bulletproof and his book was getting bigger every day. He almost envied alcoholics because they eventually passed out, where he could just gamble day and night, and night and day. It had taken its toll on him in the end though.

Fiorello smiled across the table at Moser. "$20k for the hit and another $10K to keep your mouth shut. That was the deal, right?"

Moser nodded slowly. If shooting presidents was this profitable, he might have to do it more often. He was going to get himself clear with the bank at long last.

Fiorello reached casually into his jacket pocket and threw a large brown packet casually onto the old wooden table that lay between them. "Check it, buddy, but it's all there."

Moser grabbed the package and started tearing the paper open, as excited as a big, dumb kid at a candy store. It was all there. Good. He didn't like being cheated. He glanced up.

The last thing Frank Moser saw was a .45 aimed straight at his face.

Fiorello smiled, saying, "Sorry, Frank...no loose ends...it's just business," and pulled the trigger.

Whatever had been on Moser's mind was now sprayed over the tattered wooden door behind him. That government dude had told him, “No loose ends anywhere. It’s not safe. Dispose of all evidence,” and that’s exactly what Carlo had done.

He decided it was time to go now; that shot was bound to attract attention, and on a day like today, that was going to be dangerous. He grabbed the paper packet off the table, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and scanned the room for anything that might tie this to him. Nada. He’d been careful about choosing the location, and even the time of day. It was going to be a clean sweep on this one.

Carlo Fiorello spun on his heels and walked toward the door, opening it in a single movement.

"Hi, Carlo." the voice from outside the door said calmly.

Fiorello glanced up just long enough to see a stubby .33 handgun leveled at him. A face smiled at him from underneath a neat Fedora hat. "Bye, Carlo." The gun fired and another member of the Rivello crime family was gone. Bingo. Game over.

Heller walked away from the apartment quickly but calmly. Once he was a few blocks away, he wiped the gun, broke it down, and tossed the pieces down a storm drain and into a trash can. In this part of town, no one was going to pay any attention to this, not when everyone was glued to the radio and TV for news on how Kennedy was doing. He's as dead as ghost shit, folks, he thought to himself.

His part in today was finally done. The other members of his team would have taken care of their targets by now, too. There was no one left to tell tales, or no one anyone would believe. The rest of them? Well, they'd probably wind up 6-feet under somewhere near Terlingua. That was the plan at least.

They'd actually done it. Kennedy was dead.

Chapter 13

Their entire conversation was now obviously going in a whole new direction, and maybe Jason hoped he was finally going to get some real answers here. Hearing the Illuminati mentioned told him there was a lot more to the original story than Heller had let on.

Jason paused before he answered. "I can't say I've heard very much about the Illuminati outside of those documentaries they repeat on cable. They're like some super-secret group on a mission to control the world, right?" Jason read a lot when he had time, but conspiracy theories weren't exactly his favorite subject. He drove enough nut jobs around in his cab to hear every conspiracy theory that had ever existed, and some new ones that even crazy people wouldn’t believe.

Heller was ready with his reply a split second later. "People talk about the 'Illuminati' but really don't understand what it means. They're always portrayed as being evil, and out to destroy the world. Some of them now act and behave like that, but in the days of DaVinci and Newton, the Illuminati wanted to bring humanity out of the dark ages and into the light by using science. Organized religion was hell-bent on keeping people afraid and under their control, offering to sell them a stairway to heaven. The Illuminati, which just means 'the Enlightened', wanted to show mankind the truth, and for that, many of them were silenced with threats, or simply eliminated by the church."

The silence that followed was suddenly interrupted by Darlene returning with a tray of food for their table. Several plates of steak, eggs, and pie were planted firmly on the table in front of them, followed by a very large pot of coffee. Jason felt his stomach growl in appreciation of the fact he was going to be eating very soon. Without another word, both he and the old man started to pull their dishes off the tray and started eating.

Several mouthfuls of pie and a swallow of coffee later, Heller decided to continue his tale. He was about as eager to talk as anyone Jason had ever met. That was understandable, considering that, pretty soon, he wasn’t going to be able to talk to anyone ever again.

"When the time came where technology allowed the Illuminati to move more quickly, they, and that includes me, made bolder moves to change the world. Along the way, we got lost. Just like organized religion, we perverted the original ideas, and became bigger bastards than the very people we set out to rid the world of. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Jason. It always has and it always will. If you ever want to test the true nature of any person, then simply give them a little bit of authority and watch what they do with it. I've seen perfectly decent people commit acts of horror that would turn your stomach, all in the pursuit of the tiniest scrap of power."

Heller wolfed down the pecan pie and apple pie, stopping only for loud slurps of coffee along the way. The guy was eating like he hadn't seen real food in years. It was like watching a bear attacking a lump of venison. Truth be told, it kinda put paid to Jason's appetite, and he found himself picking at the rest of his steak and eggs instead of eating them. The sights and sounds of old people eating had a habit of doing that to him. Heller might be dying, but his appetite was as alive as any man's.

Heller had noticed that he wasn't eating. "You not as hungry as you thought?" Jason looked down and realized he hadn’t touched anything on his plate yet. For once in his life, Jason found himself lost for anything but a handful of words. "Yeah, I suppose my appetite isn't what I thought."

"Or you just had your stomach turned by the sight of some old guy eating a small mountain of pie like a savage, maybe?" Heller guessed.

Jason found himself snorting a reply. "Well, you do have a certain style of eating, Bill."

Heller sat slowly back in his chair and reached into his jacket pocket with his right hand. For a split second, Jason realized he was getting ready to grab whatever was coming out of that pocket, and, in his mind, that was a gun. He couldn't have been more wrong though as Heller produced a pack of smokes.

"Do you mind if I..?" Heller asked with a flourish of the cigarette in his hand, clearly demonstrating he didn't give a fiddler's fuck what Jason said or thought on the matter.

Jason nodded back. "Go right ahead, Bill, I quit years back, but don't let me stop your fun."

Heller closed his eyes, snicked a bright flame into existence with his worn Zippo, lit his Pall Mall, inhaled deeply, and sat back. It looked like the best cigarette in the world at that point in time, and Jason found himself feeling just a tiny bit envious of the look on Heller's face.

"I was the guy who put a bullet in Kennedy, but then, these are the little bullets that got me, Jason. The little sons of bitches." It was strange to hear Heller swear like that. It seemed out of character, but Jason figured it was best to leave it alone.

"So where were we? Ah, yes, the Illuminati and murdering Kennedy. It was no secret that the Kennedy's were a very powerful family whatever way you looked at them, and what made matters worse was that they had powerful allies. What bugged my associates more than anything else was that Kennedy wasn’t the war-monger they needed in office. Kennedy had served in the United States Navy in the Pacific, so he'd had his fill of war for life – he had no desire to send other young men away to die in pointless wars, as I've already said."

Heller went on, "By this stage, the Illuminati weren't about enlightenment anymore. They just wanted control of the most powerful army in the world, and the resources of the most powerful nation in the world. So they figured out how to take America away from Americans, using the exact same techniques used by organized religion for thousands of years. Fear."

"Are you telling me that there was an actual coup? That the Kennedy assassination was a secret military takeover?" Jason said.

"Somewhere out there, there's always someone who wants to make the world as messed up as their head is, Jason. They don't know how to be happy, so their only goal is to make everyone as unhappy as they are right at that point in time. They're the kind of people I wound up working for in the end. Kennedy had to go for the war in Vietnam to be kept going, and for the Communists to be defeated the way the group I worked for wanted them to be."

Heller paused. “It’s also worth remembering that some of the biggest companies in the United States were making tens of billions of dollars from the Vietnam War – the United States lost over 10,000 aircraft in that war. Each of those had to be replaced, and someone was making a lot of money from that. Big business drives big war as much as any political idea, you’d do well to remember that.”

Jason knew that, back in the 50s and 60s, the whole Western world was living in fear of Communism and the looming threat of a Soviet Bear armed to the teeth with nuclear weapons. Of course, placing nuclear missiles within spitting distance of Florida was a dumb move, no matter what way you look at it, but Kennedy had called Khruschev's bluff on that one. And the world? Well, the world was saved from becoming a gigantic, radioactive fireball for a couple of hours, and then a frozen wasteland for the next 20 to 30 years. Convincing people that Communists were bad people was easy. The masses always preferred to have an enemy they could easily identify, and if they weren’t American, that made it even easier.

"We found a willing partner-in-crime in Lyndon Baines Johnson, too. Good ole LBJ had been embarrassed by Kennedy once too often, and had been quietly muttering about revenge for years. In private, he called the Kennedys 'the Irish Mafia', but tried to keep that one under his hat. Except when he lost his temper, and LBJ did that a whole heap,” Heller explained through a small cloud of smoke. “For a guy who looked like he said his prayers and drank warm milk before bed, he had an evil temper on him, and once he got going, anyone willing to listen would hear just how much he hated the entire Kennedy family. We didn't have to convince LBJ to work with us. We didn't have to bribe him or force him, he'd have done it for free! He was sick of being controlled by the Kennedys, so whoever wanted them gone got a gold star of approval from him."

Trying to process this much information at once can be too much for most people, and Jason found his mind spinning trying to keep up. There'd always been some questions about what happened to Kennedy, but no one ever had any real answers. The conspiracy nuts blamed everyone they could think of from the CIA, to the mafia, to a secret military coup, but there was no consistency to their answers to these questions, and opinions and theories were changed often as underwear. LBJ had never really come into the equation, from what he could remember. Then again, it wouldn't have been much of a conspiracy if the President-elect was fingered in the murder of the man he'd just replaced.