CONTINUING FROM PART-1
A private detective, with no idea why, is chased into a hotel elevator by police and government agents who are trying to kill him. He manages to exit the elevator on it's way up and climbs down an emergency ladder to the bottom of the shaft below the elevator car.


“Staff your designated stations.” Orders echo from the intercom and an additional system of loud speakers. “We presume the fugitive to be armed and dangerous. Have your weapons loaded and ready to fire, if necessary.”

Hearing that brings a chuckle, even in this situation. Hell, I'm not a genius, but only an idiot would think that there isn’t at least one trigger-happy psycho in a cold sweat to kill me.

Besides, they weren't shooting blanks when they chased me throughout the city and into this hotel. They weren't trying to capture me with dart or stun guns. They didn’t want me dead or alive. These fellows were trying to blow my ass to smithereens, like a squadron toting bazookas to blast a rabbit. Their only concerns were firepower and making the kill, recognizable or not.

Time is up. I need to do something now, or die, and probably die no matter what. My whole life, I’ve done everything by the seat of my pants without calculated information to succeed. The only difference this time, is the stakes are higher, and there won't be a second chance.

I climb back up the ladder, level to the top of the compartment, balancing the longest of the two-by-twelve pieces of lumber. I swing one end up on top of the elevator box and slide the other on the step below where I stand. Nervous, I step down onto the board and, being slow and cautious, walk toward the elevator.

 How do circus performers walk night after night on tight ropes that are only inches wide? I'm wobbling and swaying as I try to stay balanced on 11 and 5/8 inches of sturdy hardwood. The lobby traffic thins to a few stragglers. At first opportunity, I slide back the ceiling tile and slip down behind the cart.

Talking guards have congregated around the turnstile and both front doors at the bottom of the escalators. I crack open the underside doors on the cart and, as luck would have it, I find a white-cotton chef jacket and cap. I ease them out and put them on.

Finally, the coast clear in all directions, I know it’s now or never for any chance of escaping. Nevertheless, what am I going to do? With no time to waste, I slip out and start walking, trying to pretend nonchalance. No more than a few steps taken, I can hear the fat officer on the stool speak to the agent beside him, "Where the hell did that guy come from?"

At that precise time, another officer yells, "STOP, right where you are." Then, the whole police unit encircles me with weapons drawn. My heart sinks. Fatso from the stool walks up, sticks his finger in my face and demands an answer, "What in the HELL—do you think you're doing? Let me see your identification . . . PRONTO."

I stammer, “Uh-uh-uh . . .” but nothing comes out.

Teeth clenched, chewing on an unlit cigar, the officer says, "Do you not realize what is going on here?" I stand, anchored by fear. "What is the matter with you? Answer me—DAMN IT! You had better say something—fast?"

For the first time in my life, I’m at a loss for words, frozen stiff from fright. The longer the officer waits, the redder his face gets.  I look around, giving a weak smile and a slight head tip to every eye upon me, waiting at a loss for the next question.

“Don't you speak English?" Seizing the opportunity to use my acting skills, I just nod, no, and hold up my hands without saying a word. It becomes evident that they are buying into my lack of understanding, giving credence to my mute dilemma turned fortunate reaction. 

Then, he shakes his head violently back and forth slinging spit as he speaks to his peace-posse fellowship. "Hard to believe he doesn't have a clue . . . but, doesn't seem to understand a word. Hell, I don't know . . . just get him out of here . . . quickly, before the shooting starts. Open your door over there Clarence, before the dumb bastard gets us all shot.”

 "Okay, captain,” says the guard as he unlocks the doors and motions me to him.
Following instructions, he takes hold of my arm, nudges me toward the doors, and says, “Come right this way sir. Hurry up! You are in the middle of a dangerous situation."

One minute they are trying to kill me, and the next a bluecoat is holding the door open for me, which is a first. I walk out, turn right, and catch a cab three blocks south.

The airport and train stations in New York and Jersey are most likely swarming with police. Pictures of my mug posted in front of boarding stations and ticket booths while my name and description blare from televisions.

To hasten the ticket process, I reinsert my phone's battery that was removed to disable its GPS, and call in a last minute reservation, booking  a flight from LaGuardia to San Diego International airport. With my Flight confirmed, I book a room at the nearby Harbor Island Hilton.

As I step out of the cab in front of the terminal my phone rings. I hesitate, and then thinking what the hell, I answer.

“Hello—”

“Bravo, Bravo—Great job . . . you should be proud.” The voice was unfamiliar.

“Who is this?” I ask, as the caller takes his sweet time answering.

“I’m the guy in charge. The puppet master . . . .” His wicked laughter erupts, and in my inner visions, his demonic smile blows a sarcastic kiss.
  
“What the hell is going on? I don’t understand any of this . . . What do you want with me?”

“Unfortunate as it may seem, you stumbled across some classified information.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about . . . .”

“I’m starting to figure that out . . . but, what am I to do . . . I can’t just let you go.”

“Can’t let me go because of what? This is crazy.”

“Ah ah, ah . . . don’t be foolish. I see you looking around. Don’t get any ideas of running. Notice the red light just inside your left shirt pocket. There is another aimed just below your occipital bone at the base of your skull from behind. One wrong move and your brains will splatter like confetti in a fan.”

“Look, whoever you are, I haven’t done anything to anybody. I just want to be left alone.”

“Well . . . I wish that were possible . . . dealing with you only makes my job more difficult. Not even I want to kill an innocent man . . . but I will . . . that is, if you force my hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, here’s the deal. You seem extremely intuitive and resourceful. I really believe you are . . . which, might reward you a do-over.”

“Do-over . . . what do you mean?”

“You appear to be quick thinking . . . and, have impressed me with your elusiveness. So, I want you to work for me.”

“Doing what—killing people?”

“Precisely—see, now you’re getting smart already.”

“Mister, I’m not a killer. I don’t have the stomach for it.”

“Well . . . what a shame . . . ‘cause you have about ten seconds to reconsider . . . otherwise, when I give the signal to pull the triggers, it’s lights out for you.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“Oh, but I can . . . and will.”

“So, tell me what you want?”

“Just agree. It’s a simple decision . . . Once you do, you will train for about two years. Then, you will work for me. You’ll be a sweeper . . . or eraser, whatever the hell you want to call it.”

“What about my family?” His laughing answers my question, without him saying a word.

“I’m sorry to say, that . . . if you want your family to live . . . then, you will no longer exist. We will present your family a sealed coffin with a body . . . thought to be yours.  However, should you get any bright ideas and decide to contact them . . . you all will be terminated.”

“So, my only purpose in life will be to kill for you.”

“Well, now that you’ve put it that way . . . I guess you’re right. However, if you live long enough, we will give you a new identity and enough money to live happily-ever-after.”

His evil chuckle strikes my every nerve. I’m to abandon my family, friends, and there’s nothing I can do but play along . . . at least for now.

“I don’t like it . . .” So exasperated that I can hardly speak, but for the sake of my family, I manage to say, “I don’t see that I have an alternative.”

“Good, I’m glad you can see things my way . . . and I don’t have to kill you. Welcome, my new friend, to your Chosen Profession.

Helpless and under the control of a man without mercy, I’ll spend every day searching for the means and tactics to be free and home with my family.

I will train . . . as if a mad man . . . and every minute will be to acquire the skills to kill that slimy son-of-a-BITCH.