The Third Estate Secrets of the Manor

Jeopardizing his mission, thunderstorms prevented Kai Lovac’s jet from arriving on time at the Denver airport. He stared out the window at the fast-approaching tarmac, a welcomed break from his failed attempts at refreshing the unresponsive in-flight Wi-Fi on his cell phone. The airplane taxied to the terminal at 9:00 am, ten minutes behind schedule. Unaccustomed to public transportation, and being last on the standby list to board the flight, Lovac cursed the engineer who couldn’t repair his private plane in time for today’s flight. He switched his phone off airplane mode and a litany of notifications assaulted his screen. One grabbed his attention.

“Local accident on Airport Road. Car will not arrive in time. Sedan reserved at the Savvy Rental counter. The usual details.”

I’m never late. Never.

He deplaned via a portable stairway, nodding to the flight attendant who wished him a pleasant day. He checked the reservation on his phone and reviewed his itinerary.

Same schedule, different day.

Lovac merged with his fellow travelers on the concourse train and exited at the central terminal. He proceeded up the escalator. After maneuvering past a security checkpoint, he weaved between the bustling arriving and departing passengers. He blended into the background, always conscious of the people, objects, and circumstances of his surroundings.

The crowd thinned as Lovac traveled through baggage claim and approached the car rental area. He slowed his stride to study his environment. Six wall-mounted cameras and corner mirrors covered every angle.

Continuous surveillance. Security office must be nearby.

He passed two guards chatting near the exit. Their backs to the rental counter, they focused their attention on the TV monitor hung on the far wall. ESPN announcers, involved in a spirited discussion of the upcoming football season, drowned the murmur of the customers waiting in line.

Not a threat.

He continued his evaluation as he joined the line.

Ten feet from the counter to the exit. Four seconds to escape at full sprint. Five if anyone is in my way.

Eleven people waited ahead of him, varying from elderly couples to young families with small children. Although no imminent threats emerged from the crowd, Lovac couldn’t shake his apprehension and level of heightened awareness. He studied the itinerary, calculated his movements, and weighed various options to shave time off his schedule. Without exception, he always kept his schedule.

As a relaxing mental exercise, Lovac analyzed the two middle-aged employees at the counter, both more interested in their cell phones than the customers. He studied their mannerisms, posture, and reactions. The first, taller than her colleague, stood five-feet, four-inches tall, thirty-eight pounds overweight, with a dark complexion and peroxide blonde shoulder-length hair pulled back. Highlighting her false eyelashes, she sported blue contacts and spoke with a thick New York accent.

Bronx, Westchester Avenue area.

Strands of the second employee’s black hair escaped her knotted braid and extended in every direction. She skewered her chewing gum with her six-inch long, acrylic nail and wrapped the gum in a tissue.

Nails, red. Right hand 3rd fingernail chipped, 4th fingernail missing.

Her statements mimicked questions, ending with increased intonation.

California, Los Angeles.

The progress of the line slowed, and Lovac’s patience thinned. Someone tapped his shoulder from behind. Lovac tensed and turned to face a stout elderly woman peering up at him. “Could you help me with my bag? I can’t get it closed,” she asked.

With the skill and precision of a surgeon, Lovac manipulated the zipper and closed the suitcase.

“Thank you for your help. Business or pleasure?” she asked as she readjusted her fluffy purple bow used to identify her suitcase from the myriad of similar others.

He stared down at her. “Excuse me?”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure? I’m heading to the Springs to visit my grandchildren.”

He lowered his voice, pressed his lips together, and narrowed his eyes. “Business.”

The woman removed a bag from her purse and popped a few peanuts in her mouth. “Do you travel a lot for your job?”

Lovac avoided eye contact. “Some.”

She raised her voice and stepped closer, invading Lovac’s personal space. “How interesting. What do you do? A pilot? Traveling salesman?”

Lovac recoiled backwards. “Risk management.”

She smiled. “Well, that sounds exciting.”

He stared past the woman. “Not at all. It’s just business.”

“My husband Freddie, he’s a car salesman. My four grandchildren—” The elderly woman fiddled through her purse and searched for a picture.

Lovac, relieved to reach the counter, wished the elderly woman a safe trip. He completed and returned his paperwork, taking care to avoid the claws of the bubble-gum chewing employee. Her fingernails pounded the computer keys in slow motion. The clock on the back wall emitted a deafening tone as the seconds hand continued to click forward. Did the security camera, now focused on Lovac’s face, move?

Taking forever. Why hasn’t she returned my driver’s license yet?

“Sorry for the delay. Our copy machine is on the fritz.” The clerk handed Lovac his identification.

He walked toward the exit, quickening his pace. The sound of his footsteps striking the floor echoed in his ears as the crowd’s noise changed from ambient background voices to silence. Lovac’s senses sharpened. The travelers scattered, intensifying the ensuing chaos. He glanced at a mirror to view the commotion. The reflected images revealed two guards in full sprint, racing toward him. His heart rate slowed, and his almond-shaped brown eyes widened. He turned his head, studied the guards, and assessed the situation. He clenched his teeth. Twelve minutes behind schedule, time not his ally, he weighed his options.

Lovac, not flinching, put down his bag and turned to face the oncoming assault.

They know, but how? Not possible.

A guard lunged at him and missed.

“That’s him,” screamed an elderly woman, pointing to the young thief who stole her purse.

Lovac stepped aside as the second security tackled a teenager and knocked the boy to the ground. The woman’s pocketbook dislodged from the thief’s grip and bounced off the floor, spewing its innards in all directions. One guard placed the boy in handcuffs and escorted him toward the security office, while the other retrieved the purse and its contents. Lovac grabbed his bag and hurried toward the exit, blending into the crowd once more.

No more delays. Still behind schedule. Not acceptable.

Lovac located his car and drove out of the rental area, ready to start his assignment. Light traffic facilitated an uneventful drive. Before long, he arrived at his destination, a majestic stone edifice. With its three towering arched windows flanked by smaller ones, Union Station sat in the heart of Denver. The immense neon “Travel by Train” sign and ever-precise clock, reading 10:32 a.m., welcomed travelers. With trains leaving and arriving every few minutes, the station pulsed with activity.

He skirted the security post, passed a disorganized group of teachers and school children on a field trip, and arrived at the lockers. He located number 213, tucked in the bottom row corner. Lovac keyed 4308 on the touch pad and the door opened. He removed a mid-sized black duffel bag and exited the station.

Eleven minutes behind, he explored the bag in the privacy of his car. He pushed aside the bag’s contents and opened a legal-size envelope containing Dossier 1627. He memorized the attached precise timeline with addresses, maps, and description of his contact. Lovac studied the attached photo—a thirty-five-year-old white female with an athletic build, five-feet, five-inches, with brown eyes and thick collar-length auburn hair curling at the ends. She resembled someone. A person from his past, but who? He searched the picture for a clue, a spark of recognition, a reason for his hesitation, but returned to the same thought.

Boring. Plain. Soccer mom. Why her?

The map guided him to a secure parking lot, one mile west of his destination. Lovac squinted in the glaring summer sun. He put on sunglasses and walked to the designated location. A busy farmer’s market sprawled across a community park.

The blocked streets on the periphery radiated in all directions, allowing safe shopping for the vendors and patrons. Small booths peddling food, flowers, clothing, and crafts filled his view. A local band played country music on the park stage in the center, the gathering point of the festivities.

From the edge of the park, Lovac surveyed the surrounding buildings to determine the best angle for his perch. He located the perfect spot, the right height, the right distance, the right level of privacy.

An excellent choice.

Once decided, his motivation to make his return flight kicked into high gear. He quickened his pace. The shortest distance to his destination passed by the Polaroid photo booth in front of the stage. His desire to stay masked in the shadows clashed with his need to make up time.

Still behind. No one will recognize me in this crowd. No one knows I’m here.

As Lovac approached the photo booth, the attendant raised his camera and smiled. “Would you like a complimentary picture?”

“No, thank you.” Lovac turned and lowered his head. He pulled the rim of his baseball hat to the level of his sunglasses.

I’m off my game.

He moved to his right and attempted to slip by a teenage volunteer who blocked his path.

“Hey mister, how are you today? First time at the market? Do you want some information?” Not allowing Lovac to answer or pass, the teenager jammed a pamphlet into his hand. “This handout explains the terms from the market, like certified naturally grown, conventional, dry-farmed, genetically modified, and heirloom, to name a few. I figured you needed one of these, since you’re not from around here.”

Lovac crossed his arms, leaned forward, and stared down at the girl. “What makes you think I’m not a local?”

“Your shoes. Too fancy. What’s with the black outfit? Going to a funeral or something?” Not waiting around for Lovac to answer, the volunteer left him and zeroed in on her next victim.

He placed the guide in his pocket and hastened his pace. Something about this assignment, something about this day, something about this mission had thrown him off balance. The reason eluded him. The harder he concentrated on finding an explanation, the more his muscles tightened. Unable to focus, Lovac’s thoughts wandered to the face of the woman in the picture. Her eyes jarred a memory his mind wouldn’t release. Lovac exhaled and allowed the moment to pass.

He worked his way through the crowd and approached a vendor selling flowers. Tubs overflowing with various types, ranging from long-stemmed roses to bunches of daisies, lined both sides of the narrow path. Floral arrangements exploding in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors distracted him. A man holding two different arrangements stood and turned, squishing the bouquets into Lovac’s chest.

The man brushed the rose petals off Lovac’s shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Lovac turned to leave. “No problem.”

“Hey, buddy, I can’t decide,” the man continued. “The sales lady recommended a dozen long-stemmed red roses with Baby’s breath or a spring bouquet mixture with lilacs in the center. My wife loves lilacs, but the roses are more sophisticated. Which would you choose? I don’t have a lot of experience with these things.”

Not wanting to draw more attention to himself and not accomplishing his goal, Lovac said, “The lilacs, but I don’t have a lot of experience with these things either.”

The man nodded his head in agreement. “Thanks. The lilacs make sense, since they’re her favorite.”

Desperate to avoid any further interruptions, Lovac dodged pamphlet pushing teenagers, sidestepped the market-going “townies”, and walked toward his determined destination.

His goal to complete his mission and leave as soon as possible consumed his thoughts. He clasped his hands, turning the tips of his fingers red, attempting to shed the anxious vibrations radiating through his muscles and corrupting his concentration. Starting when he landed in Denver, gaining strength as the day progressed, the tightness in his muscles intensified. Random distractions, unwanted attention, and unforeseen delays gnawed at him, as if fate placed road blocks in his path to ensure his mission failed. He searched deep in the corners of his brain for the answer.

Anxiety? Remorse? Emotions are for the undisciplined. He separated his hands.

A professional, the best in the industry, Lovac did not concern himself with such matters of insignificance, so why this mission? Why this target? As if flipping a switch, he inhaled and relaxed, releasing the tension and allowing the emotions to drain from his body.

He crossed the narrow street and stood at the bottom of the broken concrete steps of the abandoned church on the corner. Once beautiful, intricately designed stain glass windows, now rest in pieces on the sidewalk, the result of vandals and years of neglect. A sign hung in the middle of the boarded and sealed enormous front doors. “Do Not Enter. Violators will be prosecuted.” Lovac ducked into the alley between the church and a permanently closed Chinese food restaurant. A rat scurried by his foot. The smell of forgotten garbage assaulted his senses. His eyes watered and he held his breath. He continued to test the handles on the church’s side doors, until one opened, its hinges rotted from rust.

Disgusting city. Can’t wait to leave.

The musty odor of the hot room greeted Lovac as he entered a kitchen off the nave of the church. He passed the pews and climbed the five steps leading to the sanctuary. A small room behind the altar contained a winding metal staircase leading to the choir loft. Once at the top, Lovac found the hatch that led to the roof. Sweat soaked his shirt as he stepped outside.

Lovac wiped his forehead with his sleeve and opened his duffle bag. The tower’s flat roof supported the crenellations of raised and gap sections along the periphery, providing ample cover for him to assemble his sniper rifle. He removed his sunglasses, reversed his hat, and shooed the pigeons off the ledge with a swipe of his hand.

The rays of Denver’s blazing summer sun blasted his face. He stood in silence, breathing deeply, his body paralyzed with dread and indecision. The events of the day weighed heavily on his mind. Complications, delays, and awkward interactions plagued his every move. Why today? Why this mission? Why her? It’s not too late to walk away. The alarm on his watch beeped, awakening him from his daze.

Shake it off. It’s only business.

He scanned the crowd, moving from face to face until he spotted his prey. He raised his rifle and adjusted his site four clicks to the left. His breathing and heart rate slowed. The world around him fell in silence, disappearing, leaving only him and his mark. He tracked the target’s movement crossing in front of the stage. The pamphlet girl he encountered earlier in the day blocked his view. His finger flickered on the trigger.

The code must be obeyed. Only the target must be eliminated, no one else.

After calculating the perfect angle from the rooftop to his mark, he waited for the opportunity to strike. A single, well-aimed bullet eliminated the target, who collapsed on the ground, dropping her spring bouquet mixture of flowers with lilacs in the center.

Done. Almost too easy?

Did his rifle sound different today?

Doesn’t matter. Mission accomplished. Time to leave.

Lovac replaced his sunglasses over his eyes, removed his hat, and straightened his thick, shoulder-length hair by running his fingers through the edges. He tucked the strands behind his ears. The duffle bag contained a change of clothing, which he donned with cat-like grace. He disassembled his rifle, nestling every piece in the protective case with precision. He returned all the contents to the duffle bag, including his baseball hat, now replaced with a white cotton bucket variety.