PIPER'S, INC. 2 - JUDAS KISS. Joaquin De Torres
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pay so many people handsomely, but our payments are no longer potent thanks to PIPER’S, Inc. That’s why we’ve said nothing till now. Your murdering of corporate media moguls and politicians has put a large thorn in our side.”
“Please forgive me if I don’t offer you any apologies or condolences, Mr. Roth,” replied the guest emotionlessly.
“PIPER’S, Inc. has killed off many of our frontline assets. This is not good. You’ve shifted the balance of power away from us, and now some of our remaining assets fear you more than their commitment to us.”
“Death does tend to sway the hearts and minds of unscrupulous people,” the guest said mockingly.
“You’ve gotten our attention.”
“Good, then it’s working,” answered the guest. “Dr. Turnbull’s ultimate vision is, in fact, working.” Roth shook his head.
“No. PIPER’S, Inc. is fading.”
“How so?”
“Since you’ve done so much to better society and the economy, a large number of your members have left the organization, have gone back to their normal lives, or off to enjoy the riches they’ve earned.”
“And how would you know that?”
“We have our sources, too. But most of the news can be seen on mercenary and paramilitary blogs. Dozens of articles have been written about former Ghosts going off to fight against ISIS, South American and Philippine drug cartels, or against Russian troops in former Soviet countries.”
The guest could not disagree. This was exactly what was happening to members who weren’t used to the current low tempo of operations. For these highly-trained warriors, two straight years of non-stop tactical purging of their own country was a pleasure. It was not only the operations, but the economic and social positivity that reflected upon the acts, that kept them feeling proud and loyal to the organization. More than the money, fundamentally restructuring the nation under their watch is what drove them, kept them sharp and on their game.
But a year and a half of one or two ops per month was causing complacency, boredom and a dulling of the blade that was once razor sharp.
Many, including some of the Ghosts’ most talented and lethal combatants, had left PIPER’S, Inc. They ended their contracts, signed non-disclosure agreements and carried off millions of dollars in severance pay. Some returned to their homes, communities, and families; some searched out different roads like buying farms, studying Buddhism in Asia, starting businesses, returning to university, traveling or volunteering for global charities. And some simply disappeared in the world, eventually ending contact with their Ghost colleagues who remained.
Then there were those groups of men and women who still needed to feed their inner warriors, and perhaps, purge their inner demons. They journeyed to foreign lands to fight as mercenaries, security agents, weapons providers, foreign military advisors, armed escorts, Intel experts or militia organizers. For them, PIPER’S, Inc. was great training, but it wasn’t as exciting as fighting terrorists or insurgents who were trained to shoot back. Like a championship sports team that begins to lose its core as stars are traded, retire or don’t re-sign their contracts, PIPER’S, Inc. was, in fact, splintering.
Roth came to the table and filled both their glasses with fresh ice and scotch. He looked at his guest with frank but sympathetic eyes.
“Let’s be honest. You must know that your director, Dale Turnbull, is losing his grip on the organization. He’s getting on in years.”
“How do you know Dr. Turnbull?”
“You don’t make it to my position without knowing who the chess masters are. And since I’m in the business of creating chess masters, Turnbull has always been an anomaly. But you need to know that he’s on his last legs. He’s accomplished his mission in life. There is peace, there is prosperity, there is a new American society. Why does he need to continue?”
“Because he doesn’t believe he’s done enough. There’s always a way to improve. He would like a Utopian America.”
“Well, we all know that he won’t have that no matter how many people he kills,” Roth countered delicately. “How melancholy he must feel to preside over a tribunal in which half its members are about to retire. He’s tired, and he knows that you can’t keep an army sharp when the war is over.”
The guest said nothing, only looked at Roth with eyes subtly betraying his concurrence.
“He knew it was coming just by the amount of members who filed to end their contracts. All those severance checks he had to sign, all those final pep talks and farewells; he saw the writing on the wall as early as last year.” Roth finished his drink leisurely without averting his eyes from his guest. “It’s just a matter of time before PIPER’S, Inc. disbands altogether. There won’t be any more work for you to do. There will not be a Utopia. There won’t be any one left to kill.” He smiled.
“There’s always someone to kill,” murmured the guest. “Perhaps I can do the organization a favor and kill you right now, Mr. Roth. I’m sure you’re somewhere on the master list.”
“Interesting,” Roth replied with narrow scrutinizing eyes. “Why don’t you know? Why don’t you know who’s on the master list?” The guest looked away knowing that Roth was about to get the upper hand again. “Because you’re not part of that upper echelon. You’re just a soldier who takes orders. How it must burn you to know there are board members who’ve never left the compound to go on missions; unlike you, with countless kills under your belt. You’ve risked your life everyday and what did they do? Shower you with praise? Money? Not nearly enough, is it?”
The guest remained silent, slowly stewing in the vat of irony and truth.
“You’re not part of management, you’re not even being considered for a post, and as long as you stay you’re always going to be the most qualified worker who never gets that one dream promotion. The promotion you deserve. And here’s what’s truly sad, the way the organization is going with its drawdown and lack of business, you’re bound to be asked to leave.”
The guest rumbled with anger without moving a muscle, without blinking an eye. He wanted to reach across the table and rip Roth’s throat out with one hand. Roth felt it. He felt the heat, the incendiary work-up to rage coming off the guest’s skin.
“Like a temp whose services are no longer needed – believe me, you will be asked to leave.”
Roth’s statements were sharp but not lethal. They stung and bled a little but not enough to apply a tunicate, at least, not yet. Death by a thousand cuts. It irritated the guest to hear these things from a man of such wealth and privilege, but it hurt even worse to know that he was probably right.
“Yes, I know you can kill me, right here, with your bare hands. You’re a magnificent warrior. Your entire body is a weapon. I, on the other hand, am not armed except. . .for this pen.” Roth reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a pen, then he reached into the drawer of the table they were seated at and pulled out a document folder. He opened it and took out a small stack of paperwork. He laid the pen on the documents and interlaced his fingers prayer-like on the desk.
“I can see it in your eyes,” Roth teased, “your rage, your frustration and your envy. They’ve given you so much money, but you’d give all that up to be in a position of leadership, influence and counsel.
“All these things Turnbull has denied you; in fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s spending much of his free time penning his memoirs for a future bestselling book. Or, contemplating the meaning of life from the standpoint of an embattled heroic luminary who has nothing more to do than shower the world with his wisdom. Or, even more laughable – how he can create his Utopian society.” Roth gently laughed. The guest’s face remained stoic although deep inside he was smoldering with frustration at how right Roth was.
“Whatever he’s doing, it surely doesn’t have anything to do with you and your